Dante
Inside the fridge, there was a slice of ube cake.
It wasn't from the one Dante had served during the 'ceremony'. No, this was from before— from a batch Lars had baked, before heading off to a potluck he'd never return from.
Dante put the cake on the table. It was the last day it'd still be good to eat.
He took a small bite. It tasted exactly like the ones his Lola Delia used to make—flavors he himself could never capture but Lars had, oh so perfectly.
His next mouthful tasted a little salty and slightly wet from tears.