It was just rice. And soup. And one dish I didn’t recognize — something stir-fried, with basil and a kind of quiet heat.
But it was warm. Not just in temperature. In the way it had been placed. Carefully. Gently.
No one sat with me. But the plate felt like company.
There was no rush. No offer to clear the table. Just the quiet hum of a fan.
And a clock that might not have been working —
or simply didn’t matter.
I didn’t check my phone. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t photograph. I just ate.
And somewhere in the middle of chewing, I realized: this wasn’t a place where you ordered food. It was a place where food waited for you.
Some meals don’t begin when you take the first bite.
They begin when you’re ready to receive them. And they end long after you’re full.