The boss gave away jars of pickles his mother had made, and the whole office laughed.

“Eat well,” she’d say.

That taste… was home.

So while no one was looking, I grabbed a box and began collecting the jars.

One by one.

Fifteen in total.

At home, I lined them up in my kitchen.

I opened one.

The smell was sharp but comforting—not artificial, but warm and natural. I tasted it.

Perfect.

Just like I remembered.