Shayan Afzal

On the first Sunday of December, I awoke to the melancholic sound of rain gently tapping against the windows, its steady rhythm a somber presence in the early morning. The room was wrapped in a cold embrace, signaling the inevitable approach of winter, a stark contrast to the fleeting warmth of my bed.

Lingering under the covers, I found a transient solace, listening to the soft patter of the rain. It was a moment of stillness, a fleeting reprieve caught between the remnants of night and the uncertain dawn of a new day.

Eventually, the day’s quiet call overcame the comfort of my bed. With reluctance, I left behind the warmth, my feet meeting the cold, unyielding floor. Each step through the hushed house felt heavy with thought, moving through a world seemingly suspended by the rain’s melancholy song.

In the kitchen, the thought of making bruschetta emerged like a faint memory. I found the garlic bread, a modest substitute for the stale baguette, and began toasting it. The scent that wafted through the kitchen was a warm, yet poignant reminder of what stood in contrast to the pervasive dampness outside.

Once toasted, I drizzled olive oil on the bread, watching it seep into the crust, a small act of enriching what was otherwise plain. The tomatoes, vibrant in their redness, were a jarring contrast to the day’s grey hues, and along with the crumbled feta, they formed a simple, almost hopeful mixture in the bowl.

Pouring balsamic vinegar over the tomato and feta blend, I watched as they merged, a bittersweet union of flavors – the sharp bite of the tomatoes, the subtle softness of the feta, and the vinegar’s poignant tang.

I gently layered this mixture onto the oiled bread, the bright colors standing out against the backdrop of a dreary day. Seasoning with salt and pepper, I then added thinly sliced spinach, not basil, lending a fresh but wistful note to the ensemble.

The final addition was a drizzle of balsamic glaze, its sweetness a faint echo amidst the savory, tangy, and fresh flavors of the bruschetta. This simple dish, born from necessity and improvisation, stood as a quiet testament to finding small joys in the midst of solitude.

With my creation complete, I took my place by the window, the rain continuing its unceasing lament outside. Each bite of the bruschetta was a complex tapestry of textures and tastes, a reflection of how even the simplest of ingredients, when combined with thoughtful care, can forge a moment of subdued beauty. The spinach, an understudy for basil, brought with it a unique, almost melancholic charm.

As I partook in this solitary meal, the rain remained my constant companion, a reminder of the world’s quiet sorrows. In this simple morning ritual, with the rain’s somber melody and the nuanced flavors of my makeshift bruschetta, I found a melancholic peace, a gentle resignation to the embrace of the December morning.