She arrived early, just like she always had her entire life. Ten minutes before the reservation, coat neatly folded over her arm, hair carefully done, a small touch of lipstick she hadn’t worn in years but felt mattered today. Eighty wasn’t just another birthday—it felt like something that deserved witnesses. The hostess smiled politely when she gave her name, checked the list, and led her to a long table near the window, already set with ten menus, ten glasses, ten neatly arranged napkins. It looked almost festive, like a quiet promise waiting to be fulfilled.
“Your guests will be joining you shortly?” the hostess asked.
