404 Not Forgotten | Chapter Two: The Honey Spell
A speculative fiction sneak peek from the Etherith universe
There are memories we cling to—and memories we bury.
In the world of 404 Not Forgotten, both live in the vault.
This novel-in-progress follows Dauxii (Doh-shee), a grieving archivist pulled into a hidden archive where erased stories, broken spells, and forbidden truths are waiting to be remembered.
Today, I’m sharing a sneak peek from Chapter Two, paired with one of the vault’s interludes:
The Honey Spell
A ritual for remembering what love tastes like—even when grief makes everything bitter.
If you love writing that feels like a spell, a glitch, or a secret you weren’t supposed to overhear—
this story is for you.
Chapter Two
The Honey Spell
Theme: Love as resistance
The peaches weren’t in season.
That’s what made it strange.
Dauxii stood in the middle of the market, staring down at a crate of perfectly plump golden peaches. The sign read “Just In — From Georgia,” but the vendor avoided eye contact when she asked how.
They were warm, almost too warm. Like they had ripened under something other than sunlight.
She didn’t buy any.
She just stood there for a long time, listening.
Somewhere down the aisle, a little girl was humming a tune that wrapped itself around Dauxii’s spine like a familiar shawl. Slow. Sweet. Almost teasing.
It tugged at her memory the way honey pulls from a spoon—thick, unhurried, unwilling to let go.
Back home, Dauxii couldn’t shake the feeling.
She lit a candle. Not for any reason she could name. Just to center herself. Something felt like it was blooming inside her ribs.
Her laptop was closed. She hadn’t touched Vault_001 since the first dream. But her fingers twitched near it like they were remembering something without her permission.
That’s when she saw the parchment.
Not on the screen.
On the kitchen counter.
Unfolded. Waiting.
Peach Honey Cobbler — Mama Elsie’s Version
Add prayers between each layer.
Do not substitute real butter. You will know if you forget.
Sing while it bakes.
Serve hot, with hands that have held grief.
She ran her fingers over the parchment. The ink shimmered faintly, like it had been written with crushed cinnamon and sunlight.
Below the recipe, in smaller script, were three words:
Vault_002. Open now.
She blinked.
Her oven was already preheating.
She didn’t remember getting the ingredients. But there they were—peaches in a bowl, butter softening on the stove, flour and sugar stacked like sacred tools.
She moved without thinking. Just like before.
But this time, she felt it: a warmth building in the pit of her stomach. A memory trying to take form.
She stirred.
She sang.
She whispered something she didn’t recognize but meant.
And just like that—
The walls shifted.
The light changed.
And the kitchen was not her own.
It smelled like everything good.
Brown sugar. Warm vanilla. Citrus peel and fresh herbs drying from the rafters.
The window was open. Bees buzzed lazily by. The soft hum of a radio drifted in from somewhere just out of reach.
At the stove stood a woman with golden skin and thick arms that moved like ritual. She wore an apron the color of sunrise and a scarf tied around her head like a crown.
“Bout time you showed up,” she said, not looking back. “Cobbler don’t wait for the world to be ready.”
Dauxii opened her mouth but no sound came.
The woman turned, smiling like they’d known each other for years.
“You don’t need words, baby. Just hands and heart.”
She moved with intention—everything measured by feeling, not numbers. She tasted the cinnamon and nodded. Poured just enough honey to make the air stick to their skin.
“This ain’t no dessert,” Mama Elsie said, voice soft but firm. “This is armor. Love is the first thing they try to strip from us. That’s why we pour it back in. Over and over again. Till it sticks.”
She handed Dauxii a wooden spoon.
“Go on. Stir it with your story.”
Dauxii didn’t know what that meant.
But her hands did.
As they cooked, Mama Elsie told stories.
Not the kind you write down. The kind you carry in your body.
She spoke of a husband who died before he ever told her he loved her, but made her cobbler every birthday. Of a daughter who moved away and only called on Sundays, but always asked for the recipe. Of a boy she took in after his mama disappeared, who couldn’t read but could recite every step of the spell.
“Food’s the only thing that ever listened to me,” she said. “It don’t interrupt. It don’t forget.”
Dauxii stirred.
And remembered.
Not just this dream. Her own.
Her partner, Amare, used to hum while cooking. Always off key. Always loud.
Their cobbler had never come out right. Always a little too tart or too soft. But they ate it on the floor, laughing until their mouths ached, spooning it straight from the pan.
Grief hit her then—not sharp like before. More like a slow wave washing against a dock. Still painful. Still there.
But not drowning her.
Mama Elsie slid the pan into the oven, kissed her fingers, and pressed them to the metal.
“Now we wait.”
They sat together at the kitchen table, steam rising from their skin, time folding in on itself like dough.
Dauxii looked at her. “Is this a memory? Yours?”
The woman shook her head. “Nah, sugar. This one’s yours. You just forgot how to feel it.”
When the oven bell rang, the dream dissolved.
Dauxii woke in a haze of warmth.
Her apartment smelled like heaven—baked peaches, toasted butter, and the kind of sweetness that makes you close your eyes on instinct.
She sat up slowly.
Her kitchen was clean. The parchment gone.
But on her altar, beside the flash drive and the phone screen, was a mason jar.
Inside: golden honey, thick and swirling like sunlight caught in a spell.
A tag was tied to the lid with red thread:
Thread Recovered. Two of Ten.
She picked up the jar.
It was warm.
She opened it.
The smell hit her like a memory: summer afternoons, gospel music, sticky fingers, arms wrapped around her in the middle of an impossible world.
She dipped her finger in and tasted it.
It was sweet.
But not soft.
It was strong.
Later that day, she sat down with her journal and wrote out the recipe from memory. This time, she added her own notes:
Hum something from your childhood.
Cry if needed.
Share the first bite with someone you love, even if they’re gone.
She recorded herself reading the recipe aloud.
As she played the audio back, a whisper echoed behind her voice.
“I remember you.”
Dauxii placed the jar of honey in front of her altar, beside her partner’s last letter.
She whispered a thank you she didn’t know who to aim it at.
But something in the air caught it.
And answered.
Want more? Get on the waitlist below.
Vault Interlude I
Dauxii’s Journal – Page 14 (unlabeled, handwritten)
A Spell for Remembering What Love Tastes Like
Ingredients:
1 story you never told out loud
2 tablespoons of something sweet
A song with no lyrics, just humming
A name you don’t say anymore
Grief, softened (do not rush this)
Instructions:
Sit in silence until the silence starts speaking.
Write their name in steam on a mirror. Don’t wipe it away.
Taste the sweet thing slowly. Let it coat the back of your tongue.
While you eat, speak to the one who loved you before language.
Tell them what you miss.
Tell them what you’ve kept.
Tell them what you still can’t say.
Hum. Rock. Cry. Laugh. Repeat.
Final step:
Burn the recipe.
Keep the flavor.
That’s how you make memory edible.