The first light of morning spilled softly through the old wooden window, its slanted beams stretching across the table before him like strands of golden thread descending from the heavens. The light touched the surface of the table — wood aged and scarred by time — and glowed upon every scratch, every grain, every memory that still lingered there. When it reached Asfinne, it brushed against his hair, setting his pale golden strands ablaze with a faint glow like the flicker of candlelight breathing in silence. The radiance slid downward, reflecting upon the plate of food before him. He looked at that light for a moment before quietly taking a seat.
The sound of the chair's legs scraping against the floor broke the silence — a rough, familiar sound, thin and dry, yet somehow soft in this morning stillness. It was faint enough to be swallowed by the whisper of wind brushing against the worn curtains, yet to Asfinne, it seemed loud, as if the world had just announced the beginning of the day.
As he lowered himself onto the chair, the coolness of the wood spread through his back and shoulders. It wasn't the kind of chill that brought discomfort but rather the kind that reminded one of the solidity of the earth — the unshakable steadiness of something that had been there far longer than memory. Beneath him, the chair creaked faintly, a weary voice of age that nonetheless welcomed him home.
He sat still for a moment, his breathing calm and steady, as the scent of breakfast began to drift upward, winding gently through the air like invisible ribbons of warmth.
The aroma of fried eggs reached him first — that unmistakable smell of crisped edges and soft centers. There was a faint whisper of oil, mingled with the mellow sweetness of butter and a touch of salt. Then came the scent of bacon, rich and smoky, its savory weight grounding the lighter fragrance of eggs. Together, they filled the room — humble yet complete, like a song sung by sunlight and fire. And beneath it all lingered the faint sweetness of toasted bread and the tang of fruit jam — a fragrance that spoke of care and simplicity, of hands that had made it with quiet thought.
Asfinne placed his fingertips lightly upon the edge of the table. The surface was rough, the lines of wood deep and uneven — each groove a record of years gone by. The wood was cool to the touch, yet alive; he could feel its strength beneath the softness of time's wear. His breath moved slowly, intentionally, as though he feared even breathing too loudly might disturb the fragile calm of the moment.
He reached for the fork beside his plate. The metal was cool, carrying the faint damp of morning air. Its polished surface caught the sunlight, scattering it into tiny reflections that danced along the prongs. He held it carefully, with both gentleness and purpose, and turned his gaze again to the food before him, as if to etch the sight of it deep into his memory.
Two fried eggs rested quietly in the center of the plate. The yolks glowed a deep gold — like molten amber — while the whites spread outward in soft curves, their edges browned and crisped into thin rings of color. Tiny bubbles of oil shimmered upon the surface, catching the light like dew upon leaves. The faint aroma of butter drifted upward, rich and soothing, joined by the smoky salt of bacon curled at the side.
He lowered the fork gently onto the egg. The tines sank easily, pressing into the soft white. A faint sound — the delicate scrape of metal against ceramic — echoed softly in the still room. When the fork pierced the yolk, it burst quietly, golden liquid flowing outward like sunlight spilling across the horizon. The smell grew warmer, richer — the fragrance of cooked life and comfort intertwined.
Asfinne watched in silence, eyes calm yet full of thought, as though the simple act of a yolk breaking was a sacred moment not to be rushed. Then he lifted a piece of egg to his lips. The taste met him gently — smooth, warm, and mellow. The yolk melted against his tongue, leaving a silky trail of flavor, while the crisped edges gave a faint crunch. When the salt of the bacon followed, it balanced perfectly — smoky and deep, grounding the light richness of the egg.
The sounds that filled the air were subtle — the faint scrape of fork against plate, the soft sound of chewing, the rhythm of his own steady breathing. All of it wove together into a pattern, a rhythm that was almost meditative.
Outside, the world was changing with the passing minutes. The golden light that had first filled the room was now brightening, turning whiter, sharper, like a blade polishing itself upon the air. Dust motes drifted lazily through the sunlight, tiny glimmers that seemed to move in rhythm with Asfinne's breath. They spun and shimmered, floating like silent magic — traces of a world that once knew wonder.
He looked at them briefly, mesmerized, then turned back to the meal before him.
The floorboards creaked softly as he adjusted his position, his weight shifting slightly. He reached for the slice of toasted bread resting at the edge of the plate. Its surface was golden brown, the crust crackled faintly at his touch. The bread was warm — soft within, crisp without. It carried the scent of fire and wheat, that pure, grounding aroma that filled one's chest with a quiet warmth.
Beside it sat a small dish of jam, ruby red beneath the morning light. Its surface gleamed like glass, thick and vibrant, tiny seeds catching the light like stars trapped in syrup. The scent was sharp and sweet, ripe with the essence of summer fruit — a fragrance that awakened memory, even if one could not say of what.
Asfinne took a small knife and dipped it into the jam. The blade cut smoothly through the thick, cool surface. When he spread it across the bread, it made a faint sticky sound — a whisper of sweetness against crispness. He lifted the slice, felt the warmth against his fingers, and brought it to his lips.
The first bite was small, deliberate. The crust crackled softly beneath his teeth, giving way to the tender crumb within. Then came the taste — the bright, tangy sweetness of fruit bursting upon his tongue, melding with the faint bitterness of the toasted crust. It was simple, honest, real. The warmth of the bread met the cool jam in perfect harmony, each enhancing the other's existence.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the flavors linger. He could almost feel something within him stirring — not hunger, not satisfaction, but something quieter. Perhaps it was gratitude. Perhaps it was remembrance. Every bite carried the warmth of someone's effort, the echo of unseen hands that had prepared it.
The room around him remained quiet, but not lifeless. There were sounds — small ones, gentle ones. The faint ticking of an old wooden clock on the wall. The distant hum of the world outside: wagon wheels rolling, voices calling, the hiss of wind brushing across leaves. These sounds blended seamlessly into the silence, shaping it rather than breaking it.
Each movement he made — the lift of the fork, the soft clink of metal against porcelain, the steady rhythm of breathing — became part of that still symphony. There was no rush, no demand. Only presence. Only being.
Asfinne ate slowly, his gaze unfocused yet full of thought. The light shifted gradually, crawling across the floorboards, climbing the wall, bathing everything in a brighter hue. The air itself seemed to shimmer, as though time had slowed to accommodate his quiet ritual.
He placed his fork down gently upon the plate. The sound — a delicate, metallic chime — rang once and faded, like the end of a song. He leaned back slightly, his eyes soft, his posture relaxed. The remnants of food before him seemed almost to glow under the sunlight. The golden traces of yolk, the crumbs of bread, the sheen of cooling oil — all of it formed a still life of peace and satisfaction.
The fullness he felt was not of the stomach, but of the heart. It was a fullness that came from the stillness between breaths, from the quiet realization that he was here — alive, existing, part of the slow rhythm of morning.
He lingered in that silence for a while, simply breathing.
The light outside continued to climb. The gold of early dawn was giving way to white — clear, silver-white light that filled the small room. The shadow of the window frame stretched long across the floor, touching the cracks in the old wall, revealing lines of time carved deep into the plaster.
The house made small noises — the ticking of the clock, the faint hum of the wind pressing against the windowpane, the almost inaudible settling of wood. These sounds were like the quiet pulse of a living being.
Asfinne looked down at the empty plate before him. A few crumbs of bread remained, a faint sheen of oil glimmered at the edge. He reached for the glass of water beside the plate, its surface trembling faintly as his fingers touched it. The water was cool, pure. When he drank, it slid down his throat like a stream flowing through untouched earth, washing away the warmth of food and leaving behind a serene calm.
When he set the glass down again, the sound it made was soft — a rounded note that lingered in the air before fading. It was not the sound of ending but of completion.
That morning was not merely breakfast.
It was a moment suspended in time, where the outside world and the quiet world within him breathed together as one. Every sound, every ray of light, every taste was woven into a single, living tapestry — the song of morning itself.
And within that song, Asfinne sat quietly,
ate the food before him,
and lived —
fully, silently, completely —
in the gentle light of a new day.