By the time they stepped out the entire orphanage had gathered.
Just… waiting.
Even Miss Martha stood near the table now, watching in quiet curiosity.
Tomas carried the rice.
Lyra followed with the kheer.
Arin brought the curry.
They served in rhythm.
Like they always had.
First came the steaming hot rice, then a generous ladle of curry over it—thick, rich, steaming, pieces of meat and soft potatoes resting in deep color.
Then a small portion of kheer.
Lyra added a few dry fruits on top of each serving, almost without thinking.
A finishing touch.
Simple.
But deliberate.
For a moment no one spoke.
The smell alone held the room.
Tomas leaned slightly toward Arin.
"…It feels like I could eat three plates by myself."
Arin glanced at him.
"…That's a daily routine for you."
Tomas snorted.
Lyra hid a faint smile, "I want to try it already."
The last of the plates were set.
Rice.
Curry.
Kheer.
Arin, Tomas, and Lyra moved around the table, making sure every child had been served properly. The pots were still half full, so they placed them at the center—open, within reach.
"Take more if you want," Tomas added, already stepping back. "There's enough."
A quiet excitement spread across the room.
But Arin didn't sit.
He turned instead.
"…Miss Martha," Arin said.
She was still standing off to the side, watching as she always did.
"You should join us," Arin continued. "It's ready."
She shook her head lightly.
"You three eat," Miss Martha said. "I'll have mine later."
Tomas frowned immediately.
"…No," Tomas said. "That's not happening today."
Lyra stepped in beside him.
"We didn't make this just for us," Lyra said quietly. "Please sit."
For a moment, Miss Martha didn't respond.
Her gaze moved across the table—the children, the food, the three of them standing there waiting.
Then, slowly—
"…Alright," she said.
She took a seat.
That was all it took.
Tomas exhaled in satisfaction.
"Good," he muttered.
Arin gave a small nod, then reached for the pot.
"Now we eat."
The three of them finally served their own plates along with Miss Martha.
Their plates filled quickly with rice, curry and kheer.
They sat down together.
And for Arin this would be one of the last times everyone sat around the same table.
For a moment after the food was served—
no one moved.
Then someone took the first bite.
And everything broke.
The room filled instantly with sound—small gasps, soft murmurs, the clinking of spoons against wooden bowls as hesitation gave way to hunger.
Tomas didn't wait for anyone else.
He pulled his plate closer, scooped a portion of rice, then pressed into one of the potatoes with the back of his spoon. It gave way instantly—soft, steaming, soaked through with the curry.
"…Oh, that's good," Tomas muttered under his breath.
He mashed it into the rice, mixing it with the thick gravy until the grains were coated evenly. Then he took a bite.
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
"…Okay."
He quickly grabbed a piece of meat next, tearing into it with far less patience this time. The flavor hit harder—richer, deeper—and he leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"…Okay, that's unfair."
Beside him, Lyra ate more quietly—but no less focused. She mixed her portion carefully, tasting in smaller bites, her expression thoughtful at first.
Then she paused.
"…This is really good," Lyra said, almost to herself.
She looked up at Arin.
"I've never had anything like this," Lyra added. "Where did you even learn to cook like this?"
Before Arin could answer—
Tomas leaned over, staring at him like he had just discovered something life-changing.
"…Will you marry me?" Tomas said seriously.
Lyra blinked once.
Then looked away, hiding a faint smile.
Arin didn't even react.
"It was revealed to me in a dream," Arin said calmly. "By the Almighty All-Father."
Tomas froze.
"…Wait," Tomas said. "You're serious?"
Arin kept eating.
"That depends," Arin replied. "Do you believe me?"
Tomas stared at him for a few seconds longer—
then shook his head and went back to eating.
"…I don't even care. Just don't die before making this again."
A few seats away—
Mira sat with her bowl, legs barely reaching the floor.
She took a careful bite at first.
Then another.
Then—
her face scrunched slightly.
"…Ah—!"
Her nose reddened almost immediately, a thin line beginning to run as the heat settled in. She fanned her mouth with her hand, blinking rapidly as the spice hit harder than she expected.
But she didn't stop.
If anything—
she leaned back in.
"…It's spicy," Mira said, her voice half a complaint, half a laugh.
"But… it's really good!"
She sniffed once, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and took another bite anyway.
That alone was enough.
At the center of the table, Miss Martha ate more slowly than the others.
Measured.
Careful.
She broke the potato gently, mixed it into the rice, then took a bite.
Her expression didn't change immediately.
But her eyes did.
"…Arin," Miss Martha said after a moment.
He looked up.
"This is exceptionally good," she said. "I've never tasted anything like this before."
She glanced down at her bowl again.
"…What do you call this dish? I thought it was some kind of soup at first."
Arin shook his head slightly.
"It's not a soup," Arin said.
He paused just a fraction.
"…It's a curry."
The word felt unfamiliar in the room.
But it stayed.
"And the dessert," Arin added, glancing toward the kheer, "that's called kheer."
Miss Martha nodded slowly, committing both to memory.
"…It's good," she said simply.
Arin finally took a proper bite himself.
The taste settled in slowly.
He didn't speak at first.
He just… let it sit.
"…Yeah," Arin said quietly.
"It's good."
Not perfect.
Not quite.
In his mind, another version existed—clear, precise, untouchable.
His mother's cooking.
The balance.
The depth.
The instinct.
This wasn't that.
Not yet.
But—
Arin glanced down at the meat.
"…The ingredients are carrying me a little," he thought.
A faint smile touched his lips.
The monster rooster meat was richer than anything he had used before. It compensated where his technique still fell short, filling the gaps he knew were there.
"…Still not there yet," Arin thought.
Then he took a spoonful of kheer.
It was warm.
Soft.
Sweet in a quieter way.
Not as complex as he remembered—but close enough to echo something real.
"…This too," he thought. "Not complete."
There were things missing.
Ingredients.
Techniques.
"…I'll find them," Arin thought as he took another bite.
Around him—
the room had changed.
Not in a sudden burst, not in anything loud or overwhelming—
but in the way people leaned forward instead of sitting back, in the way spoons didn't rest for long, in the way quiet turned into conversation.
Tomas was the first to get up.
But this time—
he wasn't alone.
Others followed, one after another, stepping forward with their bowls, reaching for more before the pots could even settle. Even Lyra, who usually held back, rose without a word and went for a second serving.
Bowls filled again.
And emptied just as quickly.
Voices grew warmer, lighter—overlapping, laughing, calling out for more as if the entire hall had slipped into something closer to a celebration than a meal.
It didn't feel like an ordinary night.
It felt like a feast.
And for a while—
nothing else mattered.