She almost fell asleep in the taxi on her way back home.

For a day or two she had been more tired than usual. Irritable, without much appetite. Her lower back ached and her legs felt heavy, but none of it seemed particularly important. Work, lack of sleep, PMS. There was always an explanation.

That morning, while getting ready for work, she noticed she was not quite herself. She ignored it.

At the bus station, though, she felt suddenly too hot inside her coat. The thought of standing on the crowded bus for the entire ride became unbearable, so she hailed a taxi instead. By the time she reached the office, the short walk from the drop-off point had left her oddly winded.

She sat down at her desk and tried to work.
The headache came first. Then the chills.

She put her coat back on, took it off again ten minutes later. Nothing helped. She stared at the same paragraph on the screen without understanding what she had just read.

When she finally stood up to go to the toilet, the room shifted slightly. She waited for it to settle, then continued down the corridor. Halfway there, she had to stop. A small coughing fit left her leaning against the wall, breathing carefully because something under her ribs hurt when she inhaled too deeply.

In the bathroom mirror, her face looked strangely pale.
So perhaps it wasn’t PMS after all.

Her colleague came looking for her a few minutes later and put a hand on her forehead.

“You’re burning up. Go see a doctor.”
“But the report is urgent.”
“You won’t finish it if you’re dead.”

She returned to her desk, sent a message explaining why she was leaving early, and packed the laptop into her bag.
The hospital was on the way home.

The X-ray showed pneumonia. The doctor prescribed antibiotics, along with the usual instructions: drink plenty of fluids, rest, and come back immediately if her breathing became worse or the fever didn’t start improving.

She listened, nodded, collected her medication and went home.

When she took off her coat, she registered how heavy it was. She had to sit down to remove her shoes. She left everything on the hall floor and curled up on the sofa.

She was thirsty, but the distance to the kitchen felt enormous. Changing her clothes was out of the question. She only mustered enough energy to set alarms for her medication before falling asleep.

The fever came in waves. One moment she was freezing under the blanket; the next she would wake up soaked in sweat. The cough grew deeper and lasted longer.

When she finally woke with a clearer head, the room was dark. For a moment she had no idea how long she had been sleeping, or whether it was morning or evening.

She had no appetite, but she knew she had to eat something.

She opened the refrigerator and stared inside.

There was practically nothing useful. One yoghurt. Half a jar of olives. A few carrots. And a cabbage she had bought several days earlier, when she still had more ambitious plans for it.

Those plans were irrelevant now. The cabbage still looked very committed to occupying a large portion of the fridge.

She closed the door.
“I’ll just order something.”

But what she wanted was something homemade. Soupy. Warm.
She opened the fridge again and took out the cabbage.

Weak, shaky and feverish, she placed it on the chopping board. The whole operation suddenly seemed completely unnecessary and utterly impossible, but the plain cabbage stew had somehow become the only thing she wanted to eat.

She peeled away the outer leaves and put them aside.

The knife went through only the first few layers before stopping. She leaned over it with all her weight and immediately had to pause for breath.

“Bloody cabbage. Do you have to be this strong right now?”

She tried again. Finally, there was a crack.
Two bright green halves opened on the board, releasing the sharp fresh smell.

And with it came a kitchen.

Overfilled with trinkets, as always. Her grandmother standing at the stove with a kitchen towel thrown over one shoulder. Always white with some colourful pattern. She used those towels for everything: wiping plates, grabbing hot pots, gently hitting people who got in her way, chasing flies and occasionally cats.

She never liked aprons.

She started chopping one half of the cabbage. There would be no following the recipe properly this time. Grandma wouldn’t approve.

Water. A little oil.
Cabbage. Onion. Garlic. Carrot.
Everything chopped quickly and unevenly.
Salt, pepper, a few bay leaves and a spoonful of smoked paprika.

She put the lid on and turned the heat down. Then she noticed the cabbage half still sitting on the counter.

A half-forgotten thought returned.
“Wait. What was it for? Fever or flu?”

There had been a period in her childhood when she was often sick. On workdays, when she couldn’t go to kindergarten, her grandmother stayed with her.

She would take the large cabbage leaves and beat the thick veins with the handle of a knife until they softened. Then she laid them across her chest and wrapped her tightly in one of those kitchen towels.

She could still remember their cold, damp touch against her skin. How she waited for the coolness to gradually fade. How they rustled whenever she moved. And the heavy smell after a few hours.

She knew perfectly well that cabbage leaves would do nothing to the bacteria in her lungs. Still, she wanted them.

Then she took one of the kitchen towels hanging beside the stove and threw it over her shoulder. She took several large leaves from the remaining half and softened the thick veins with the knife handle.

Grandma was not there. Or anywhere.

She stood for a moment with the leaves in her hands. The kitchen towel was nowhere near long enough to wrap around her chest. She found the tightest tank top in her wardrobe instead and tucked the leaves underneath it. The same damp coldness touched her skin. She pulled a cardigan over everything and wrapped it tightly around herself.

By then, the smell of stew had filled the flat.

When it was done, she poured a large bowl and sat at the table. By the time she finished it, she was no longer shivering. The cabbage leaves kept rustling with every movement.

The next morning she joined the meeting from the sofa.

“Thank you for getting this done,” her manager said. “I honestly didn’t expect you to finish it so soon. Now please take a few days off. We’ll cover the rest.”

She smiled.
Then she noticed something green on the screen.
A piece of cabbage leaf was sticking out of her top.

She gently tucked it back in. Nobody had noticed. Video calls concealed stranger things than cabbage leaves.

But Grandma would have laughed until she cried.
She bit the inside of her lip and somehow made it to the end of the call.
The moment she closed the laptop, she burst out laughing.

A few minutes later, still smiling, she went to warm up the cabbage stew.