A/N Okay, this is a whole LOT shorter than what I usually post, so please don't judge it too harshly. Anyway, they didn't elaborate too much on Linguini's mother's death in the movie (I guess it wasn't all important plot-wise) and I wanted to do something with it.

I'm still a little unsure about this fic, but I hope everyone likes it! Also, I'd be grateful for those who leave reviews!

Disclaimer: Ratatouille, Linguini, etc, are Pixar's. If I owned any of it, I'd be a very happy girl indeed.

It was over now. All the preparations, all the endless waiting was over. The last guest was leaving. Very soon he could stop thanking them for coming, stop telling them he was holding up okay. Maybe if they just left him alone, he could stop talking altogether. He didn't want to see anybody. They did not hurt the way that he did. He couldn't look at them, knowing that to them she was just one more person gone from the world.

To him, it was like he had lost everything.

They were all gone now. Other than himself, the only ones to remain were the gravediggers. They began to fill in the hole. It seemed to add some finality to the situation, the earth that separated him from her now. He couldn't stand to watch it.

Lowering his eyes he focused on the envelope in his hands. He had been careful with it, and the purple paper had retained its clean newness, despite how much he had handled it the past few days. The neat, tidy writing he knew so well graced the front: Monsieur Skinner.

He could remember when he had gotten it. It had been less than a week before.

He had been sitting at her bedside for nearly three weeks. She was very sick. He didn't know what it was that was ailing her, but it was definitely bad. He looked brokenheartedly down at her as she fumbled across her bedside table. She spoke to him as she did so, her voice low and faint.

"Now, it's important that you do as I say." She finally found what she needed: a pale purple envelope, her own neat writing across the front. "When I go-"

"Don't. Please." He begged, but she ignored it.

"You must take this. It will help you." The envelope passed into his hands. He frowned down at it, but kept quiet. "Go to Paris, Alfredo. Go to Gusteau's."

"The restaurant?"

"Yes. I once knew Auguste very well, when I was a younger woman. I am sure those left there, Monsieur Skinner perhaps, will help you." He didn't answer. He sighed as he stared down at the envelope in his hands, his mother's hand soft and comforting where it rested on his arm.

Here he was again, looking down at the bit of paper. But he was alone. There wasn't a single soul for him in the world now.

He had no desire to leave his home…he didn't even want to leave the cemetery, but he had already packed his suitcase. There really wasn't anything to hold him back now, save his own sentimentality.

There was nothing for it.

It was time to go to Paris.