I drank.
Then I ate.
Without rushing. Without trying to satisfy hunger.
Each sip, each bite, became a ritual. A full act, anchored in the present. There was no urgency. Not anymore. The world, for the first time in a long while, seemed suspended around me.
I let the wine flow slowly over my tongue, flooding my palate with a soft, complex warmth — almost carnal. It was an old wine, thoughtful, structured. It had memory. Depth. It opened silently, revealing its layers one by one, like a story told in the dark, by the embers of a forgotten fire.
I drank, cup after cup, and each pour held the weight of a fragment of peace.
Around me, the desert stretched like a sea of petrified gold. The dunes rippled in the gloom, caressed by the wind like by an ancient hand. There was nothing left to fear. Nothing left to prove.
