There were four tables.
None of them matched.
One wobbled every time the wind nudged it.
The river beside us didn’t rush. It didn’t speak, either.
It just moved — like it had nothing to prove.
The noodles came quietly. Thick broth. Soft bite.
A little pepper, a little warmth.
No garnish trying too hard.
The woman who served it didn’t ask questions. Just placed the bowl down gently, like she didn’t want to disturb the moment.
No one said much. We all ate. Slowly. Not with reverence, but with a kind of respect — for hunger, for silence, for each other.
I didn’t ask the name of the place.
Didn’t want to break it by naming it.
But I remember the taste:
Simple. Deep.
Like the river.
Some meals don’t fill your stomach first.
They quiet the noise. They make space for something softer. And sometimes, that’s what you were really starving for.