The clatter of plates, the hiss of steaming pans, and the rhythmic chop of knives against cutting boards filled the kitchen of La Serata, one of the most popular Italian restaurants in the city. It was the kind of place that drew both well-to-do families and tourists seeking authenticity, with glowing lights in the dining area and the constant hum of chatter drifting back into the kitchen. Behind the polished façade, however, the kitchen was a world entirely different, loud, chaotic, and unforgiving.
At the very back, in a corner tucked between the industrial sink and the garbage bins, stood a young woman named Harper. She was the dishwasher, though some of the staff jokingly called her the ghost of La Serata, because she barely spoke and rarely looked anyone in the eye. Her uniform was always a little faded, her sneakers worn down at the soles.
She kept her head low, focused on the mountain of dishes that never seemed to shrink, and avoided confrontation at all costs. Nobody really knew much about her. The servers gossiped about how she probably lived with a dozen cats in some run-down apartment, or how she only worked there because she couldn’t find anything better.
The cooks laughed at her quietness, teasing that maybe she didn’t even know English. They didn’t bother asking questions. Harper was invisible until the night everything changed.
It started with leftovers. At the end of each shift, trays of untouched bread, half-eaten pasta, and slices of pizza with one bite missing piled up in the waste bins. The head chef, a stocky man named Franco, was strict about food waste policies.
“We don’t let staff take home leftovers,” he barked often. “It sets a bad precedent. We throw it out.”
But Harper had been caught more than once quietly slipping food into her tote bag at the end of the night.
A slice of lasagna here, a container of soup there. At first, no one paid much attention. It was only scraps anyway, and she wasn’t exactly stealing from the register.
But soon the servers started noticing, whispering among themselves. “Did you see her take that bread yesterday? Stuffed it right in her bag like nobody saw.”
“She probably can’t afford groceries.
Poor thing.”
“Or she’s just greedy. Who knows what she does with it? Maybe she feeds a pack of stray dogs or something.”
The whispers turned into laughter.
Sometimes, they would nudge each other when Harper passed by with her tote bag, smirking as if they were in on a joke she would never understand. Franco, however, didn’t find it funny. He was a man of rules, and Harper breaking them even in such a small way was enough to set his jaw tight with irritation.
One evening, as the dinner rush wound down and the kitchen finally caught its breath, Franco called a meeting. “I’m putting a stop to this nonsense,” he declared, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “Food leaves this restaurant only one way: to the customer’s table.
Anyone caught taking scraps will be fired on the spot.”
The servers exchanged glances, half-amused and half-curious about how Harper would react. She stood at the back, damp hair sticking to her forehead from steam and sweat, eyes fixed on the floor. She didn’t say a word.
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