I took a bite out of the lemon cake I baked with Nana Lily. 

“This is good,” I said, the tang of lemon coating my mouth. The cozy kitchen was filled with the aroma of the freshly baked cake. The sunlight casted delicate patterns on the wooden table where the flyer for the town’s annual Lemon Festival lay. The festival was just a week away, and I was determined to win. 

Baking was always a hobby of mine, but it felt more special when I baked with grandma. “Have you ever won the competition at the annual Lemon Festival? I'm sure you have, right?” I asked. 

Grandma Lily was a petite woman with a crown of soft, silver hair. 

She replied, “When I was your age, around 15, I also wanted to win the competition. I entered countless times, but I just couldn't do it. I was missing a key piece, but I don't know what that is. But I'm sure you can find it.” 

“Really? Me? But—” I began, feeling a pang of doubt. 

“No buts, Emma. I'm sure you can do it.” She patted my head, her touch light but reassuring. A bit puzzled, I just nodded, and she gave me a comforting smile. Grandma went to her room to rest, and I went to get the approval of the pickiest eater of our family. “Hey dad, try a slice of this lemon cake I made!” I called out. Dad was a tall man with a stern face. With a skeptical look, he grabbed a spoonful of my lemon cake. His eyebrows raised in surprise. “Not bad, kid. Even I approve of this cake!” “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” I shot back, rolling my eyes but curving my lips into a smirk.

As we were chatting, we heard a noise coming from grandma’s room. Both of us quickly ran upstairs and saw grandma having trouble breathing. 

Panicking, I asked, “Grandma? Are you okay?” She tried to respond but couldn’t. My mom dashed in, with a look of terror on her face. 

“Emma, what happened to grandma?” she said, her voice quivering. 

“I think we need to call an ambulance,” I said softly, as I reached for the telephone. I dialed 911. The paramedics arrived and inspected grandma. 

With teary eyes, I asked mom, “Will Nana be okay?” 

“She will be fine. Don't worry and go to bed, okay?” 

The night was long and restless and the house felt emptier. The next day, I was told grandma passed away. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. I was depressed and couldn't do anything. 

At her funeral, as I stood by her grave, the reality of her absence hit me hard. I realized I shouldn't give up—at least for grandma’s sake. She wanted me to find the missing piece to her seemingly perfect recipe. 

There was no time to doubt myself anymore. I had to start preparing. Although it was getting late, instead of sleeping, I went to grandma's room to read her recipe cards. The scent of her favorite rose-scented perfume still lingered in the air, and her collection of porcelain figurines lined the shelves. When I opened her drawer, I saw an old, worn-out journal under the recipe card and decided to take a look. 

While reading, one entry caught my eye: “What is the missing piece? Maybe it’s something intangible—or a technique I've yet to discover.”

From the clue left by grandma, I began reading an old baking book that was also in her room, hoping to learn more baking techniques. From the book, I learned many new techniques and tried implementing them. The next day, I stood in the kitchen, preparing to start baking. Although I used the techniques from the book almost perfectly, all the cakes were a failure. The baking book didn’t help. 

In despair, I thought of grandma Lily. “Just what am I supposed to do, grandma?” I thought of the memories I had with her. I always liked her rose-scented perfume. Maybe the missing ingredient wasn’t something tangible after all, but something that captures who she was. 

I went back to the kitchen, grabbed a jar of rose water, and added it to the new batch. Her rose scent was what made her so unique. This time, I carefully mixed the ingredients, pouring all my memories of grandma into the batter. 

The kitchen was a complete mess from baking for several hours. My apron was dusted with white. I could almost hear grandma's voice guiding me through each step. Despite the whirlwind of emotions inside me, I carefully recalled her cake recipe. Measuring out the flour, sugar, and baking powder, I cracked the eggs and watched as the yolks blended with sugar, resulting in a creamy mixture that smelled like sweet promises. 

After adding the lemon zest, a tangy aroma filled the air. I poured the batter into the pan, and put it in the oven. As the kitchen timer ticked, I stared at the cake in the oven rising through the small window. 

WHen the timer finally went off, I took the cake out. The golden brown crust was beautiful, and the kitchen filled with a soothing smell. I let it cool on the counter, and my

heartbeat raced in anticipation. The final step felt like a lifetime, but the cake was finished. I cut a tiny slice, the texture delicate and moist, and took my first taste. 

The flavors danced on my tongue—the lemon's tartness perfectly balanced with the subtle floral hint of rose water. It was like tasting a piece of my childhood—of grandma's love—of everything she had taught me. My eyes welled up with tears, which flowed down my cheeks. The cake melted on my tongue, each mouthful a soothing memory of grandma. 

My voice trembled. “I think I found the missing piece, grandma,” I whispered softly. The empty kitchen felt a bit warmer, as if she were there with me, smiling proudly.