Soon, the quiet hum of rest gave way to footsteps and sleepy voices. One by one, everyone started drifting back downstairs, faces still flushed from napping or curled sleepily with the kind of softness only winter afternoons could offer. Maria and August had volunteered to cook, and the kitchen began to smell like something comforting and rich: herbs, lemon, garlic, and the warmth of searing fish.
We had red fish and pasta that night, with just the right amount of spice and butter. Arthur, declaring it a “proper feast,” pulled out a dusty bottle of white wine from the cabinet and poured it generously into mismatched mugs. We clinked drinks over candlelight, talked about nothing in particular, and filled the dining room with soft laughter and the clatter of cutlery.
After dinner, warm and
