It was lunchtime, and the table was already set. A white cotton tablecloth covered it. Each plate was carefully arranged with matching cutlery. Water glasses and wine glasses were lined up from left to right, all evenly spaced. Beside each one lay a neatly folded white napkin, and in front of every setting sat a charming little golden bread roll on its own small dish.
The table was filled with all his favorite foods. A large serving platter held colorful veggie sticks, neatly arranged, with small bowls of dips nearby, along with a tray of cheeses. In the center stood the soup tureen, its curved ladle resting beside it, filled with a creamy pumpkin and potato soup. The appetizers—hummus made with chickpeas and beetroot—were ready, paired with crispy crostini.
Everything was in its place. Only one person was missing: the guest of honor. The others would come later.
He arrived right on time, with his simple, radiant smile that perfectly matched his clear, water-like eyes. Anyone who knew him well would say that even his eyes smiled—but only when he was truly happy. They were a mirror of his gentle soul. You couldn’t look away; being near him felt like anchoring in a safe harbor surrounded by calm seas. His oval face, with its graceful, mathematical symmetry, held all of this—like a perfect equation.
He sat down quietly on the sofa, his presence filling the room more than any voice could. He glanced at the table. A small, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips—one of recognition, of gratitude, of memory. He didn’t say much, he never needed to. His silences were never empty; they were full of meaning, like the pause before music begins.
Then, from the hallway, came the soft murmur of voices and the light rustle of footsteps on the floor. The other guests were beginning to arrive.
Coats were hung, cheeks were kissed, and greetings were exchanged in hushed tones, as though the room itself asked for gentleness. One by one, they entered, pausing for a moment at the threshold before approaching the table. Their eyes moved from the setting to him, and something unspoken mixed—gratitude, affection, perhaps even awe. No one rushed, no one needed to.
Finally, they each took their seats. Without a word, he stood and walked over. His steps were quiet, almost reverent. He pulled out the chair gently, careful not to disturb the harmony of the scene, and took his seat. He broke the bread roll in two with care. The crust gave way with a soft crackle, releasing the warm scent of flour and time, then he closed his eyes for a moment, as if sensing not just the bread, but the care that had gone into preparing it.
She had been watching him the whole time, her hands resting in her lap, her breath held without realizing it. Then, slowly, he looked up, and when their eyes met, she exhaled—quietly, like a secret being let go. There was no need for words since the table, the food and the light were all speaking for them.
You might have said the same about him, that he looked just like a Paradise cake—imperfect, delicate, and melting on the tongue.
It was his birthday.