Green Pill. A complex carbohydrates, fiber, and vitamin B12 pill, placed on the nightstand in advance, as every evening. With the same hand that turned off the alarm clock, Alma grabs it and throws it down her throat. She swallows it without even a drop of water. A notification with a green checkmark lights up the phone, accompanied by the message “nutrition completed 1 out of 5”; followed by a panda rubbing its belly saying “Yum. With such a rich breakfast, it can only be a splendid day!”.

The city is marked by precise trajectories, intersecting like a dance, every day with the same accuracy, as if tracing imprints on carbon paper. Pleasure distracts. Efficiency accomplishes and other slogans dissolve under hurried steps. The sidewalks are lined with billboards, so they can be absorbed while remaining magnetized to the work phone. Productivity. She locks eyes with a little girl who keeps staring at her while being dragged by a woman. Dark brown hair like hers and a hairpin with a knitted flower.

Then Alma rushes to Óreksis, the nutraceutical multinational she works for, where she is met with an emergency in the laboratory that has caused the system to go haywire: a formula is no longer working. The active ingredient seems to have died out. It was being replicated from the databases, but by constantly altering the genetic code, the original has been lost. And now the herb from which it was derived is no longer available. Not even among the cryogenically preserved seeds at the North Pole. Production is at risk and the system does not tolerate gaps.

While listening to her colleagues ranting, Alma sees the face of the little girl she crossed paths with on the street. Her grandmother Ofelia used to say that everyone is born with a guiding herb, so every time she sees a child, she wonders what theirs might be. They lived in the countryside. Then her daughter, Alma’s mother, fell ill: a rare autoimmune disease. She needed prosthetics, medication, a city. So they left the land and the medicinal plants. She always spoke of it with pride, knowing she had given her best to her daughter, but there was still that melancholic note of someone who had sacrificed themselves. She had been one of the leaders of the food counter-revolution. She never stopped talking about it, in fact. Rituals, recipes, prayers. They never ate without first smelling, touching. She explained that every plant has its mood and that you cannot harvest the root without asking for permission. She would place a leaf on her hand and then ask, “What does it tell you?” There is an underlying code in every dialogue. Sometimes she would make her try freshly picked plants, and Alma was scared. She didn’t know what they were. So the grandmother would ask her if it would have been different if she had known. “Is it knowledge that determines taste?” Even the foods she was used to were once foreign.

Strange is also that noise in the company, declaring an operational standby due to the issue. Amidst shouts and proposals, Alma thinks that if her grandmother were here now, she would know where to look. And she understands: there is only one place where she can find what is missing. It would have taken her to the caretakers in the mountains. Here is the solution. She must climb the Silent Mountains. A forbidden and dangerous territory according to the official maps. But she trusts her grandmother’s memory. There is no other way. Alma slips away without saying a word. She sets off on her journey, following the shadowy areas of the geographical maps.

Two crouching children cook potatoes on the hot stone. The older one turns them from time to time with a stick whose bark has been scraped and pointed. The other one watches while playing with a frayed thread from his sweater. “Is mom or dad there?” – he doesn’t finish the question before a shout “Gabhar!” announces a swarm of bells and bleats.

“Hadda chop some logs but then lost meself in thocht. Scuiped milking hour.”
“Da, Here’s a wayfarer!” the boy exclaims.
“Didnae even notice now there was a wee body” replies the father.

Alma enters with her hands still sweaty. Everyone up there knows her grandmother Ofelia. They remember her with great respect. They call out to other companions, especially the elderly, friends of the grandmother. They bring out a fermented drink to toast. She feels ashamed to refuse. So, she gulps it down. Her body is not used to it. Meanwhile, they prepare a welcome feast with substantial food. She laughs to mask the embarrassment of her atrophied taste buds. They don’t understand. So she explains what Óreksis does, the grandeur of their mission: to eradicate diseases and hunger. To maintain perfect nutrition, making everyone more energetic. Giving each the right intake. Getting the maximum performance from each. Then, more and more naively, she explains why she has come all this way and how they can be the solution. “We are all essential cogs in a larger mechanism,” she concludes like a mantra.

Silence.

A man laughs and comments, “Once they filled up without nourishing themselves, and today they nourish themselves without filling up”. Suddenly, the warm welcome turns cold. Alma feels trapped.

“’Hae a taist,’” says another, offering her a wooden gourd with six spouts.
“What is this?”
“Trust. Let your taste buds reveal it”.
“Can I know what the hell you are giving me?” Alma exclaims.

The elder looks at her unruffled. “Is it knowledge that determines taste?” He maintains a challenging gaze. A lump forms in her throat. She feels suffocated. But at that moment, she trusts. She knows she can do it. She swallows without even a drop of water.

Silence.

“Do not forget. Taste is memory. Memory is freedom”.