It cools on the table only briefly before Doamna Marica cuts into it, the knife sinking down with satisfying resistance. Steam rises, damp against our tired faces. Wooden dishes are passed, portions claimed.
Mama comes to my side as the others turn back to their work. She presses a slice into my hands, warm through the cloth, her fingers lingering just a moment too long.
"Take this to Radu," she whispers so that only I can hear. "Before it cools."
My face warms instantly. I nod, unable to stop the small, foolish smile that pulls at my mouth. When I turn, Elena’s gaze is already on me, her lips curved, her eyes bright. I smile back without thinking, the way I always do. Behind me, someone lifts another sack of flour. The fire crackles. The pie steams in my hands.
I step into the communal room with the plates held steady in both hands.
The air presses low here, full of smoke, sweat, and the last warmth of food. Men sit shoulder to shoulder along the long tables, voices rumbling as they finish their meal. Wooden bowls and trenchers are pushed aside, crumbs scattered where hands have been careless. A jug passes from one to another, wiped on sleeves between mouths.
At the head of the table, Popa Vasile[2] sits straighter than the rest.
Hislong gray beard is neatly kept, his tunic clean, hands folded in expectation. He barely looks at me as I set the plate down, his fingers already reaching.
"God reward you, child," he nods, eyes lingering a moment before drifting back to the food.
I bow my head and move on.
My steps carry me along the table, past familiar shoulders and voices, until I reach Radu. He's broader than most boys of the village, already settled into himself. His hair has grown darker with age, cut short at the nape. His tunic is clean where others are stained, his posture relaxed in steadiness.
Beside him, I set the plate down without a word.
He smiles—a small curve of his mouth that makes my stomach tighten despite myself. His eyes flick briefly to my hands, to the faint red marks still there from work, before they return to my face.
"Mul?umesc[3], Raveena."
Heat rises to my cheeks before I can stop it. I drop my gaze to the table, to the grain of the wood, to anything but his eyes, and nod, retreating before the silence stretches too far. When I look up again, just briefly, he is still smiling.
By the time the men finish, the table is a mess of crumbs and empty plates. Bones are piled together, crusts torn apart and abandoned. The last of the pie has vanished entirely, save for a few slices, uneven and thin, set aside almost as an afterthought.
Doamna Marica laughs as she takes in the scene, clapping her hands together. "Well, I’ll take that as a praise. Look at this—hardly a crumb left. They surely liked it."
"They've worked so hard, after all", Mama smiles fondly.
Around me, the women chuckle, pleased with themselves, and I laugh too, because it is what one does. The sound comes out light enough; yet, inside, something tightens.
We gather what remains, each piece growing smaller as the knife passes again and again. Enough to be grateful for—always enough to be grateful for. Someone jokes about it. Someone else shrugs.
When the platesare carried back into the kitchen, my smile is still in its place. Where it belongs.
***
Once the last bowls are stacked and the hearth is banked low, the light has already begun to fade.
It slips through the narrow openings in long, amber bands, catching on drifting smoke and stone alike. The fire is fed one final log, then left to settle. Hands are wiped on skirts. Shawls are pulled close. One by one, we drift toward the door, our voices easing as the day loosens its hold.
Outside, the cold has turned biting. The village exhales—doors opening and closing, footsteps crunching, the muted lowing of animals being called in for the night. Smoke rises straighter now, dark against the bruised sky.
Mama walks beside me, her arm warm through her sleeve. Next to us, Doamna Irina lets out a small laugh, her breath puffing white. "Saints above," she nudges me gently, "your Radu nearly forgot his food. If he'd stared any harder, the pie would’ve burned through his hands."
A warm chuckle escapes Mama. "He’s a good boy," she concedes mildly, though I sense pride beneath it. "And attentive."
My cheeks warm again. I keep my gaze on the path, careful where I place my feet.
Elena walks close to my other side, hands folded neatly before her. She smiles as she speaks. "He hardly looked at his plate. I thought he might forget to eat entirely."
Doamna Irina hums approvingly. "It won’t be long now. A good match, God-willing. Not everyone is so favored."
