Isabelle arrived on Monday afternoon, just as the light began to soften.
It was a little past three when Alina heard the gate click open, followed by unhurried footsteps along the stone path. She looked up from the kitchen counter where she had been arranging ingredients—eggs lined carefully in a bowl, cream chilled, herbs washed and drying on a cloth.
"You're early," Alina called out, smiling.
"I escaped," Isabelle replied, appearing at the doorway with a grin. "My family promised they could survive without me for a few hours."
Alina laughed. "A generous sacrifice."
"They'll manage," Isabelle said, shrugging off her coat and hanging it neatly by the door. "They always do."
The kitchen filled with the comfortable energy of two people who didn't need to impress one another. Isabelle moved easily through the space, touching things lightly, asking permission without words. She tied her hair back with a ribbon she pulled from her pocket, then washed her hands with the thoroughness of someone who respected the ritual.
"So," she said, surveying the counter. "Beef quiche."
"Yes," Alina replied. "I'm ready to learn."
Isabelle nodded approvingly. "Good. Then we start with the crust."
They worked side by side, Isabelle explaining not in long lectures but in observations—how the dough should feel cool under the palms, how overthinking ruined texture, how patience mattered more than precision. Alina followed carefully at first, then more confidently, trusting her hands instead of her mind.
"Cooking isn't about control," Isabelle said at one point, pressing the dough gently into the pan. "It's about attention."
Alina considered that as she watched Isabelle move. There was no rush, no sense of performance. Just presence.
They prepared the filling next, the scent of sautéed onions and herbs warming the air. Isabelle showed her when to stir and when to wait, when to season lightly and when to stop entirely.
"Wine helps," Isabelle added, glancing at the empty counter. "But not required."
Alina paused. "I'll be right back."
She slipped on her shoes and practically jogged to the nearby shop, returning moments later slightly breathless, holding up a bottle triumphantly.
"I hope this works," she said.
"It will," Isabelle replied. "Wine is forgiving."
They laughed, and the sound felt earned.
As the quiche baked, the kitchen grew quiet in that comfortable way that didn't require conversation to justify itself. They poured wine into mismatched glasses, leaning against the counter, watching the oven light glow.
When the timer finally chimed, Isabelle removed the quiche carefully, setting it aside to rest.
"Patience," she said again, smiling. "Always patience."
They carried their plates out to the back porch, the early evening air cool against their skin. The garden hummed softly—leaves shifting, distant voices blending into background music. They sat side by side, plates balanced easily, wine glasses catching the last of the sunlight.
The first bite was perfect.
Not in a dramatic way. Not astonishing.
Just right.
"This," Alina said, closing her eyes briefly, "is exactly what I needed."
Isabelle clinked her glass gently against Alina's. "Then we did well."
They talked as they ate—not about anything urgent or important. About recipes that failed before they succeeded. About favorite places to walk. About children growing up faster than expected.
It was girl time, in the truest sense—unforced, unguarded, quietly joyful.
When the plates were empty and the wine bottle lighter, Isabelle leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs comfortably.
"I'm going to Nice this weekend," she said casually. "Checking on our family restaurant there. See if my brother needs help."
Alina nodded. "That sounds nice."
"I'll meet my children too," Isabelle added. "They study there. Live with their father."
She said it without heaviness. Without explanation.
Then she turned slightly toward Alina. "Would you like to join me?"
Alina blinked. "Join you?"
"Yes," Isabelle said, smiling. "We can have fun together. I can show you interesting shops and restaurants. Or if you prefer, we can go to museums. Walk. Sit. Whatever you like."
The invitation hung in the air—open, uncomplicated.
Alina felt something unexpected rise in her chest.
Yes came to her without calculation.
Without weighing schedules or obligations. Without considering whether it was practical or efficient or worth the effort.
"Yes," she said simply.
Isabelle's smile softened. "Good."
Later, after Isabelle left and the house settled into quiet again, Alina remained on the porch for a while longer, glass in hand, listening to the garden breathe.
She thought about how easily the answer had come.
How luxurious it felt to say yes without measuring cost or benefit.
Without asking herself what she might lose.
The dinner had been complete—not because of the food, or the wine, or even the company, but because nothing had been missing.
And for the first time in a long while, Alina felt certain of this truth:
She was no longer building her life around absence.
She was filling it with presence.
Slowly. Gently.
And fully.