Alina's days no longer announced themselves.
They unfolded.
Morning came without urgency. Light slipped through the curtains and settled on the walls, unbothered by what time it was supposed to be. She woke when her body decided it had rested enough—not because an alarm insisted, not because someone else's schedule required her presence.
She walked most mornings.
Not far. Not fast.
Down familiar stone paths, past gardens she now recognized not by sight alone but by smell. Jasmine here. Rosemary there. A fig tree that dropped fruit onto the path without apology. The town greeted her the same way every day—without expectation.
She read in the afternoons.
Sometimes novels, sometimes essays, sometimes nothing more demanding than a few pages before setting the book aside and letting her thoughts wander. Reading was no longer a performance of productivity. She did not annotate. She did not rush to finish.
She cooked for herself in the evenings.
Simple meals. Vegetables. Eggs. Soup when the air cooled. Food that answered hunger without trying to impress. She ate slowly, often at the table, sometimes standing by the counter, never multitasking.
There was no schedule built for others.
No invisible audience to satisfy.
No one to be available for.
No one waiting for her to finish so their evening could begin.
And somewhere in the middle of all that quiet repetition, she noticed something surprising.
Her body was relaxing.
Not in a dramatic way. Not all at once.
But gradually.
Her shoulders no longer held themselves up as if bracing for impact. Her jaw no longer clenched when she was thinking. Her breath settled lower in her chest. Even her sleep changed—deeper, longer, unguarded.
She had lived so long in a state of low-level vigilance that she hadn't realized it was there.
Until it left.
That afternoon, she walked to Les Repas de la Famille without planning to stay long. Lunch, perhaps. A familiar table. A greeting from Élodie.
The restaurant was lively but not crowded. Sunlight spilled in through the open door, catching dust motes midair. Voices layered over one another in easy conversation.
Alina took her seat.
A slice of quiche arrived with her plate—golden crust, the scent of butter and herbs rising gently as steam escaped.
She took one bite and paused.
"This is incredible," she said without thinking.
Élodie, passing by, stopped.
"You like?" she asked.
"I really love this quiche," Alina said, smiling. "I wish I could make my own."
Élodie's mouth curved into something proud.
"My daughter made this," she said.
Alina glanced up. "Your daughter?"
Élodie nodded toward the kitchen. "She is here today."
As if summoned by the mention, a woman stepped out carrying a tray of dishes. She was tall, her hair pulled back loosely, sleeves rolled up without concern for elegance. There was confidence in her movements—not performative, not rushed.
"This is Alina," Élodie said, gesturing between them. "And this is my daughter, Isabelle."
"Nice to meet you," Isabelle said, smiling easily.
"Likewise," Alina replied.
"You like the quiche," Isabelle added, not as a question.
"I do," Alina said. "It's… grounding. If that makes sense."
Isabelle laughed softly. "It does."
Élodie watched them with visible satisfaction before moving on.
Isabelle pulled up a chair across from Alina without asking, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
"So," she said, resting her forearms on the table, "are you a cook?"
"No," Alina said immediately. "But I want to be better. For myself."
Isabelle nodded, approving. "That's the best reason."
They talked while Alina finished her lunch. About ingredients. About how recipes changed depending on mood. About how Isabelle had learned to cook not from books, but from watching—standing on a stool as a child, absorbing rhythms rather than instructions.
Isabelle was about ten years older than Alina, but the difference felt irrelevant. She carried herself with the assurance of someone who had already lived through several versions of herself and made peace with them.
"Do you live nearby?" Isabelle asked.
"Yes," Alina replied. "Just outside the main street."
"Ah," Isabelle said. "The stone house with the garden?"
Alina blinked. "You know it?"
"Everyone knows that house," Isabelle said. "It's been waiting for the right person."
The comment landed softly, without drama.
They fell into an easy rhythm after that—conversation flowing without effort, silence allowed to exist without explanation.
When Alina stood to leave, she hesitated only briefly.
"Would you like to have tea at my place?" she asked. "You could teach me how to make this quiche. If you don't mind, that is."
Isabelle's smile widened, genuine.
"I'd love to," she said.
They agreed on a day without checking calendars, without urgency.
As Alina walked home later, she realized something important.
Friendships were forming not because she needed them—but because she had space for them.
Her life was no longer arranged around proving worth or relevance or usefulness. It was arranged around presence.
Routine had replaced performance.
And in that routine, something unexpected was growing—not ambition, not escape.
But ease.
At home, she brewed tea and sat by the window, watching the light soften as evening approached. Her body settled into the chair as if it trusted the world to hold steady for a while.
She had nothing to prove.
And for the first time, that felt like the greatest luxury of all.