I lived alone in a small house outside the city. The days passed peacefully: after lunch, I sat by the window, listening to the birds, watching the sun slowly set over the empty street.
From the outside, everything looked peaceful, but inside, a loneliness had long since settled, which I tried not to think about.
That day was my birthday.
No one called, no one remembered. And then I suddenly decided to do something unusual, almost reckless. After lunch, I took the bus and went into town—just like that, without a plan.
I went into a small bar.
There was warm yellow lighting and soft music. I sat in the corner and ordered a glass of red wine.
I was looking around, and at some point I noticed a man approach my table. He was younger than me, in his early thirties, well-groomed, confident, with an attentive gaze. He smiled and offered to order me another glass.
We started talking so easily, as if we’d known each other for years. He said he worked as a photographer and had recently returned from a trip.
I told him about myself, about my life, about how I’d put off so many things and never made up my mind. I don’t know if it was the wine or just the warmth, but I suddenly felt alive.
