Nobody knew how many floors the building had.
Not because it was too tall to count.
Because the numbers slowly changed whenever someone looked away.
Some mornings, the elevator believed there were thirty-seven floors.
By evening, it politely insisted there had always been ninety-two.
Nobody argued with it.
Above the highest floor...
there was one more.
A quiet kitchen surrounded entirely by glass.
Its windows stretched from the polished wooden floor to a ceiling so high it seemed to disappear into morning light.
Outside...
there was no city.
No mountains.
No earth.
Only clouds.
Endless clouds drifting beneath the building like a slow white ocean.
Sometimes entire constellations floated below them.
Sometimes sunrise arrived from underneath.
The sky was still deciding which direction it preferred.
Inside...
everything glowed amber.
Copper pans hung neatly above an old wooden island.
Fresh bread rested beneath linen cloth.
Little pots of herbs lined every windowsill, their leaves gently glowing whenever someone smiled nearby.
The room smelled of butter, cinnamon, cedar wood...
and soup quietly waiting.
The chef had lived there for longer than he remembered.
His apron was always clean.
His sleeves always rolled exactly twice.
Every morning, he prepared enough food for two.
Every evening...
one meal remained untouched.
He never seemed disappointed.
He simply wrapped it carefully and placed it beside the window.
The clouds always carried it away before dawn.
One afternoon—
if afternoons still existed this high—
the elevator chimed.
The doors opened.
A young architect stepped out carrying a leather tube filled with blueprints.
She blinked at the endless kitchen.
"I was looking for the rooftop."
The chef smiled without surprise.
"It wandered off years ago."
She laughed.
"I believe it."
She walked toward the windows.
The clouds below moved so slowly they almost seemed asleep.
Far beneath them...
an entire thunderstorm drifted quietly through the white sea.
Lightning flashed silently inside the clouds like lanterns being lit one after another.
"I don't think I've ever been this high."
"I don't think height matters here."
"What does?"
He stirred a small pot resting upon the stove.
"Hunger."
She looked at him.
"For food?"
He tasted the soup.
"For reasons."
He poured two bowls.
The broth shimmered softly.
Tiny herbs floated upon its surface.
Each leaf resembled a little green feather.
She accepted the bowl.
"Thank you."
The first spoonful was warm.
Not hot.
Not rich.
It tasted like arriving somewhere before anyone had expected you.
She closed her eyes.
"I've never had soup like this."
The chef nodded.
"Neither have I."
"But you made it."
"I never cook the same soup twice."
The room became quiet again.
It was the kind of silence only large windows know.
Outside...
a cloud gently bumped against the glass.
Instead of drifting away...
it remained there.
Watching.
The architect smiled.
"I think it likes your cooking."
The chef looked toward it.
"I've been feeding that one for years."
The cloud became slightly rounder.
Apparently...
it agreed.
She wandered through the kitchen.
Every cupboard carried tiny handwritten labels.
Rainy Afternoon Tea
For Someone Missing Home
Cloud Jam
Extra Dawn
One little ceramic jar had no label at all.
"What goes in here?"
The chef thought carefully.
"I haven't discovered it yet."
She liked that answer.
Near the far window stood an enormous dining table.
Twenty chairs.
All empty.
Every place had been carefully prepared.
Napkins folded.
Plates polished.
Candles waiting.
"You expect guests?"
"I prepare for them."
"They never come?"
He looked toward the clouds.
"They always do."
She followed his gaze.
There was nobody.
Only endless sky.
"I don't understand."
"I know."
He smiled gently.
"It took me a long time."
Outside...
the clouds slowly opened.
Not splitting apart.
Simply making room.
Beyond them appeared another sky.
Then another.
Layer beneath layer.
Blue skies.
Starry nights.
Golden sunsets.
Gentle rain.
All drifting quietly underneath the building like pages in a giant storybook.
The architect whispered,
"How many skies are there?"
The chef placed fresh bread upon the table.
"I've stopped counting."
She reached into her blueprint case.
Inside were hundreds of carefully drawn buildings.
Bridges.
Libraries.
Observatories.
Gardens.
She looked at them for a long while.
Then quietly rolled them closed again.
"None of these belong here."
"No."
"They're too complete."
He sliced the bread.
"The nicest places usually leave room for tomorrow."
She looked around the kitchen again.
The empty chairs.
The warm lamps.
The untouched second meal.
The windows stretching forever.
"Is that why you stay?"
The chef nodded.
"I've learned something."
"What?"
He looked at the clouds carrying another untouched dinner gently into the distance.
"Some people build houses."
"Some people become them."
She felt those words settle somewhere inside her.
The elevator chimed softly.
Its doors had opened again.
Waiting.
Patiently.
She picked up her blueprint case.
"I suppose I should continue."
"I think you should."
She hesitated.
"Would you ever leave?"
The chef looked around the kitchen.
The herbs.
The windows.
The empty chairs.
The soup still warming quietly upon the stove.
He smiled.
"I already arrived."
She nodded.
Some answers ask for no further questions.
Before stepping into the elevator, she turned back one last time.
"What happens if nobody ever finds this place again?"
The chef placed another bowl beside the window.
The clouds gathered around it like old friends.
Then he answered,
"Warm light is never wasted."
"Even when no one is looking..."
"...it teaches the darkness where home is."
The elevator doors quietly closed.
They descended through countless changing floors.
Soon...
even the sound had disappeared.
The chef remained by the great windows.
Outside, another sunrise slowly rose from beneath the clouds.
Inside, bread continued baking.
Soup continued simmering.
The twenty empty chairs waited without impatience.
And somewhere far below,
an architect who had only meant to pass through
found herself adding one impossible note to every future blueprint:
"Always leave one window facing the clouds."