Helinton Fantin

Tuscan Soup. AI-Generated.

I'm here, leaning against an old chair that creaks under my weight, the fire in the hearth crackling ar my back as the sound of the rain makes the night feel cozier. There in the kitchen, behind a crooked counter that separates the hall from the heart of the inn, stands she — a woman who seem carved from stone and shadow, with broad shouders and hands that carry more stories than words. Her grey hair is tied in a loose bun, strands falling rebelliously, and her grease-stained apron sways as she moves. The fire dances beneath an iron pot, old as the floor we tread, and I watch the Touscan soup come to life, my eyes glued to every gesture, my nose delighting in the aromas that permeate the air. It's not just food — it's a spectacle, a dance she commands with the calm of someone who's prepared this meal a thousand times.