During Thursday family dinner, a stranger knocks. She is muddy, wearing a badge with no language. "I was invited," she says calmly, though no one remembers inviting her. The family, polite to a fault, sets an extra plate. The guest eats ravenously, complimenting spices she cannot name. Between bites, she tells stories of a place with no maps where people navigate by taste and texture. She claims to be everyone's future friend, visiting early. Skepticism rises. Aunt May whispers she is lost. The stranger laughs, saying being lost is her career. She helps people find themselves by getting lost with them.
She asks each person a question only a close friend would dare: "When did you last change your mind?" "What are you pretending not to want?" The family shifts, answers halting. Dessert arrives. The guest produces a vial of soil from her home and sprinkles it on the pie. The flavor is rich, unfamiliar, grounding. After dinner, she offers to wash dishes. While scrubbing, she hums a tune that sounds like longing. When plates are dry, she thanks them for their future hospitality and leaves, stepping into a night thicker than before. The family sits in silence, flavors lingering. In the following weeks, each member makes an unexpected choice: a career shift, a reconciled feud, a new hobby. They joke about their "friend from nowhere," but they keep her plate in the cabinet, clean and ready, just in case she knocks again, reminding them that strangers can be invitations to self-inquiry.
Months later, a postcard arrives with no stamp, smelling of the same soil. It reads, "Got lost again. Found you in a song. Save me a seat." The family frames it. At the next holiday, they set two extra plates: one for her, one for whoever they might become after the questions she left behind. They hum her tune while doing dishes, realizing it fits perfectly with their laughter.