The video ended. The screen went black. The buffering wheel spun one last time.

But when Ego’s pen dropped, the ghost-Linguini was crying.

Linguini, now a plump, stressed-out university student studying abroad, typed the phrase for the fifth time that semester. His French was terrible, his rent was overdue, and the only thing that cured his homesickness was the buttery, animated warmth of a rat who wanted to cook.

He existed in the whirring fan of a laptop in a tiny attic apartment overlooking the rainy rooftops of Lyon. He existed in buffering bars and corrupted cache files. He existed, most urgently, in the search bar.

The screen flickered. The YouTube logo dissolved into a sepia-toned kitchen. And suddenly, Linguini wasn't in his attic anymore. He was standing in the steam of a bustling Parisian chef’s line. The clang of copper pots was deafening. A tiny, blue-grey figure stood on a cutting board, arms crossed.

Remy looked up at him. “ C’est ça, ” he said. “ Pas besoin du film complet. Juste le moment complet. ”

Back in the attic, the real Linguini closed his laptop. He didn’t find the film. But he smelled something drifting up from the street—garlic, thyme, a simmering tomato sauce from the bistro below. He smiled.