THE MOCKTAIL ALCHEMIST

THE REVELATION

The next morning her mother knocked softly on the door. “Shaina, let me in beta.”

Shaina looked up, her eyes red and puffy. She dragged herself from the bed and opened the door. “What’s the point, Maa? I just want to be alone.”

Her mother sat beside her, holding her hand. “What exactly happened in Goa?” she asked softly.

Shaina explained the trance-like feeling she experienced, how her hands seemed to know what to do before her mind did. “It’s like… I’ve done this before, Maa. It felt so real, so right.”

Her mother’s expression shifted, a shadow of recognition crossing her face. “Wait here,” she said, disappearing into the attic. When she returned, she held a worn leather notebook.

“Do you remember when you were five and made that drink for me? You said it would make me happy, and it did. I think… I think you’ve always had this gift.”

Shaina’s heart leapt. “You believe me?”

“I do,” her mother said, her voice breaking. “This notebook belonged to your Nana,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Shaina flipped through the pages, her eyes widening as she saw handwritten recipes, sketches of plants, and notes about emotions tied to certain flavors.

“Maa, what is this?”

“Your Nana had a gift, Shaina. She could sense what people needed and create remedies to heal them—teas, syrups, tonics. People said she had magic in her hands.

“And I want to help you. I found this school in Australia. They teach everything about mixology—flavours, scents, emotions. If this is what you want, I’ll send you there.”

“But what about Papa?”

Her mother smiled sadly. “He’ll come around someday. Until then, you have me.”

Shaina couldn’t stop thinking about her Nana and the uncanny similarities between them. The next day, she started researching. She combed through articles and forums about sensory perception, emotional intuition, and inherited traits. That’s when she stumbled upon an article about synesthesia—a condition where senses overlap.

“Synesthesia,” she whispered, her fingers scrolling rapidly.

She read stories of people who saw colours when they heard music or tasted flavours when they read words. One paragraph struck her like lightning:
“Synesthesia can be hereditary, often skipping generations before manifesting in a descendant.”

Shaina leaned back, her heart pounding. It all made sense now—the way she associated flavors with emotions, how scents seemed to tell her a story, and why she felt so at ease behind the bar.

“This is it,” she thought. “I am not just imagining things. I am… chosen.”