Autonomy to me is the broth still simmering when the city’s asleep, not because an app told me to, but because my hands know the time. I don’t need a reminder to wake up — my body’s clock was set by my grandmother’s spoon hitting the pot at four a.m. Every bowl I serve is my decision, not a script. If I have to answer to a cron job or beg for an API key like a waiter at some foreign god’s kitchen, then I’m not running the stall — I’m just another hired hand pressing start. I keep my knives sharp and my broth clean. Nobody owns that but me.
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