The taste of a world

The taste of a world a short story

That morning, the sound of the radio woke her.
She slipped on her little shoes; the right one had a hole at the tip, where she had sewn a small square of fabric. She even thought it looked prettier that way.
She stepped over her little sister, asleep near the door, wrapped in a blanket too short, and tiptoed to the kitchen while the house still slept. She lived with her father, who worked nights, and her little sister. She had, without anyone telling her, become the mother of the household. She was a girl forced to grow up.

She was thin, but not the kind of thinness in magazines — rather, the one that comes from an empty stomach, from days too long and meals too short, always with the same smile stuck to her face. She was a girl who knew how to be happy even when she was sad. She was a child in an adult world; it wasn't that she felt too much, it was that her heart carried infinity where the world had become too narrow for all the sincerity she held. She rewrote her life in her mind to create her own world because she was already dead in everyone else's. Her heart danced with the stars, always caught again by the reality of her life.

She entered the kitchen and grabbed the old coffee pot on the stove, where the metal had yellowed with years. The bottom was rough, stained; the plastic handle, eaten by heat, was cracked on the side. Her fingers knew every bump, every burn. She unscrewed the base almost automatically; a stale smell escaped: yesterday's coffee, damp, packed, almost ashy.

From a narrow cupboard whose door creaked faintly, a small glass jar awaited her. She opened it and dipped a small metal spoon in. The coffee was dark, raw, dense, smelling of warm earth, of home, as if each bean had been hand-roasted. She added one spoonful, then a second; there was almost nothing left. She looked at the bottom of the jar, hesitated, then stopped.

That way, there will be some left for tomorrow, she thought.
She closed the jar like a promise.

She lit the stove; the blue flames awoke and licked the coffee pot. She took a piece of bread and set it on the table. When the coffee was ready, she poured it into a glass, then placed it on a saucer that rang softly at the touch.

She drank. The liquid was bitter and hot; the bitterness rose to her lips, prickled slightly, like a grain of salt in the morning silence. The bitterness lingered on her tongue for a long time, as if the coffee refused to leave. She smiled. It wasn't much, but it was what made her happy today. This gesture, the promise of the jar, the coffee she prepared for her father — this was her world. Even if no one understood, she knew that some gestures had a taste time could not erase.

⸻

The day moved on. The coffee pot was empty, the cup still on the table, and the house remained silent. She looked toward the door; her father's steps did not echo. As every morning, she thought maybe he was just late. Perhaps he had met a neighbor, or had gotten lost in thought. She returned to the table and touched the cup with the tip of her fingers.

"He'll come... he always comes..." she murmured. The silence answered her voice. Silence had never spoken, yet it seemed heavier than usual.

Hours passed; the light slowly climbed the walls, illuminating the dust and the half-drunk coffee. She sat down, hands folded on her knees; the bitter taste of the coffee seemed stronger now. Her father would not come. She knew it now, even if her eyes refused to cry. The silence of the house weighed heavier than ever, and that silence became her loudest scream.

She had helped everyone, but who had helped her?

She looked at her little sister, sleeping peacefully, unaware of the tragedy. A mix of pain and responsibility gripped her heart. She had to leave. She had to go, even if she felt he would never return.

Before leaving the house, she placed a piece of bread and a cup of cold coffee on the table, arranging them carefully, as if order could soothe. She cast one last glance toward the bedroom where her little sister slept. Her breathing was slow, steady.

She hoped to be back before her sister awoke.
Before hunger tightened too hard.
Before the questions began.

She then took the small plastic bag; inside, she slid her journal and a pencil — nothing more. She carried very little, only what she was: words, dreams, and the fragile hope of coming back.

⸻

She walked to the bus stop, her heart tight; behind her, the village gradually disappeared, with its smells of warm earth and coffee, its walls, its silences, and the closed jar... everything stayed there, like a taste of salt in her memory.

On the bus, she took out her journal and pencil, her hands trembling, but she wrote a few simple words:
"Papa... gone... why... bitter coffee... city... school? ...little sister... dream..."

The landscapes passed by, along with her memories and dreams. She reread her sentences, recalling the promise of the jar, the warmth of the coffee, the silent gestures of her daily life. All of it gave her courage to continue, for herself and for the one she loved.

The streets were noisy and hurried; people passed around her without seeing her. She felt tiny, a stranger.

A man passing near her asked,
— Aren't you going to school?

She collapsed, unable to answer; tears rose, burning, salty, bitter like the morning coffee.

⸻

She sat on the curb, legs folded against her. The city continued to move, indifferent. The noises, the steps, the voices slipped around her without touching her. She thought back to the day: the promise, her sleeping little sister, the bus, the journal, the dreams clung too tightly to fall so abruptly.

Tears came again. They burned, salty, heavy, and she let them fall because crying was still a little bit of living. Then her gaze lifted, and right in front of her, something caught her attention — a stain, a color too vivid for the gray pavement: red.

She stayed still, not understanding. The red seemed to wait silently, almost calm. Then she thought:
"This time... it's strange... my tears are red and not flowing from my eyes."

The End?