Her world always revolved around those four walls, in her humble kitchen, with her old stove, hanging pots, and the aroma of freshly baked bread filling the air.
Her life was built on the simple routine of someone who needed nothing more than the essentials: her home, her hands busy with dough, and the company of two cats that seemed to understand her silence better than anyone.
Years ago, when her husband was still alive, this kitchen was the heart of the home. The afternoons were filled with laughter, shared meals, and unhurried conversations. Each day had its rhythm, and time seemed to flow slowly but pleasurably.
Then, one by one, her children grew up, packed their bags, and left, promising to return. But life is quick, and time doesn’t wait. Letters became phone calls, phone calls turned into brief messages, and after that, a silence Maria had to get used to.
Now, at 85, with tired bones, Maria still sits in her old wooden chair, waiting without really waiting. Her hands, which once rocked her children to sleep, now rest on her lap, with no other task but to recall the past. Her cats, faithful companions, watch her with the loyalty that few humans are capable of offering.
