The hall hit me before I crossed the threshold.
Warm air rolling out — roasted garlic, fresh bread, the specific richness of something slow-cooked since morning — and underneath that the aliveness of a space full of people who had been together long enough to stop performing it.
My stomach did a small, involuntary thing.
Not hunger.
Nerves wearing hunger’s clothes.
Chloe’s shoulder bumped mine. “Ready?”
“Define ready.”
“You’re breathing.”
“That’s a low bar, Chloe.”
“It’s a starting point.” She grinned and steered me forward.
The hall was long and warm and built for exactly this — long wooden tables worn smooth and dark from years of the same people sitting in the same places. Children at the far end, loud and unself-conscious. An older couple sharing something from the same plate
