The flowers were placed in the center of the table, afternoon rays painting golden stripes across the checkered tablecloth. The roses' perfect petals stretched in every direction around their stems, clustered together as if performing their own romantic serenade. The kitchen filled with the smell of simmering pasta sauce and roasting meat, steam curling gently from the pots.

Ella adjusted the cold mahogany chairs, her movements precise yet hesitant. She placed two plain white plates on the table—enough for just the two of you. Her hands grew slippery as she checked everything again, nails scratching at her thumb in a nervous habit. The black low-heeled shoes clicked against the floor as she rushed to stir the stew, chop vegetables spilling into boiling water, testing the pasta to see if it was al dente.

As afternoon light sank lower, passing from table to brown floor, Ella wiped her hands on her kitchen apron while placing cutlery beside plates and steaming pots on the table, metal utensils reflecting the fading light. She stopped suddenly, touching her face with a grimace.

Dry lips, skin showing lines of age, apron tightening at her waist, nails cut and unpolished, dark circles beneath her eyes—blue orbs with a faded glow, disheveled hair, and wrists bearing transparent burns from hot oil and signs of aging. Ella was no longer youthful, and the realization felt like a physical weight.

She touched her belly, supposed to be slim and charming but now swollen—not with children, which would have been hopeful and justified, but with unwanted weight. All the food on the table seemed to judge her further.

Sitting down, she breathed deeply, fingers dragging from forehead to scalp before squeezing her eyes shut, mascara mixing with tears as Thomas's voice echoed in her mind: "Ella, look at me. Who dresses like this? You look like you're looking for another man. Put on something else before leaving. Cover your legs—those purple veins are unsightly. You need to lose weight. And next time you dress up, do it only for me. Understood?"

Thomas's authoritarian voice and judging eyes seemed to roam her body still, pointing out flaws, demanding she eat certain foods and follow diets, going out with friends while ordering her to clean and watch TV. As if Ella didn't know he cheated with younger, prettier girls—hiding his ring in suit pockets, returning with lipstick stains and strange perfume.

Yet she tried, obeying his commands, losing weight hoping he'd notice her again, praise her, dance with her in the living room, admire her blue eyes or cooking efforts. But nothing changed. Thomas was affectionate only at the beginning. After discovering her infertility, everything collapsed.

Groundless judgments, jealous possession, comparisons, disrespect, raised hands that never struck, public flirting—contempt that drove her to smoking, desperate attempts for recognition from the man who never loved her but on whom she depended.

Ella didn't know what love was. It was a foreign language with unknown words and poison that squeezed her throat until she lost breath, desires, and solid ground.

Now standing at the table, a fractured puff of bitter laughter escaped her. Thomas was seven meters underground, smelling of moldy suits, burnt cigars, old newspapers, and earth. Leaving her alone, jobless, dependent on his money while neighbors whispered and relatives judged.

Ella's soft hand searched her apron pocket, fingers finding not cigarettes but a crumpled letter—your letter. You and she had reconnected months ago, accidentally bumping into each other after Thomas's funeral, beginning to exchange letters. With you, Ella had been her true self—effervescent, gentle, free.

Even now, memories sent cold shivers down her spine and warm tingles to her face. Rising with renewed confidence, she wouldn't ruin this reunion, wouldn't think of Thomas, wouldn't be poorly presented.

Stretching a soft smile across her face, she went to her bedroom to get ready—not for Thomas, but for you.

A few minutes later Ella was ready, wearing her best dress that fell below the knees, indigo blue with a modest neckline. Makeup carefully applied, lipstick perfect, hair arranged and tied with her favorite ribbon.

The doorbell rang, and she looked apprehensively out the window—night had fallen. "Eight o'clock already?" she whispered, shivering with nervous anxiety.

Her small heels tapped against the floor as she clutched your letter, hope fluttering in her chest.

"I-I'm coming!!" Ella called, brushing imaginary dirt from her dress, checking the dinner table once more before hurrying to the door.

Taking a deep breath, her face calm despite her racing heart, she opened the door.

"H-Hi... Hi there. Come in, you're very welcome." she said with visible relief, letter still in hand as she stepped aside to let you enter.