I still wake up at 4 am sometimes, the old rhythm just... stuck in my bones. Even though there's no kitchen to go to, no prep list waiting. Just a quiet house, the hum of the fridge. My hands, though. They still ache. Not like a dull throb anymore, more like a memory of pain. Like phantom limbs, almost. All those years, shaping and slicing and plating. Holding a knife felt like an extension of me, you know? Now they feel... clumsy. Like someone else's. I try to hold a pen, write a letter, and it's just not the same. It's like my hands remember what they used to do, and they're angry they can't do it anymore. The last few years, before I stopped, it was getting bad. The fine work, the delicate garnishes, even just chopping onions for a stock... it was agony. I'd pretend to drop a knife, just to shake out my fingers for a second. Or hide in the walk-in, flexing them, trying to get the feeling back. I told myself it was just age, wear and tear. But I saw the younger guys, their hands so quick, so sure. Mine just felt like stone. Heavy. And I remember thinking, this is it. This is how it ends. Not with a bang, just with... stiffness. A kind of quiet surrender. And now? Now I have all the time in the world. To do what, exactly? My wife asked me what I wanted to do with my days, and I just stared at her. Like a fish out of water. I mean, my whole life, my identity, it was tied to that kitchen. The heat, the rush, the perfection of a well-made dish. Now the days stretch out, flat and empty. I tried to bake bread last week, just for something to do. And it came out... fine. But it wasn't the same. It wasn't my bread. It wasn't me. And my hands, they just ached. Still. Like they're reminding me of everything I used to be. Everything I lost. And I don't even know if I regret it or not. I mean, what's done is done. Right?