Do you remember this? The yard at noon, the long wooden table scarred by decades of knives and elbows, the white cloth smelling faintly of soap and smoke. Flowers cut too early, food placed like offerings, generations aligned on both sides as if arranged by fate. The house watched from behind them, humble, patient, its roof dusted with snow like powdered sugar on a cake nobody dared cut yet. In Romania, this wasn’t nostalgia. It was choreography. A daily miracle performed without applause. Back