Yes, that cake tastes well. A sip of orange juice to it. The sun throws its rays on the opposite wall. Grandma hears the constant hum of a device. It’s quite warm. But cooler then outside. The humming is from an air conditioner. Nobody is talking. The fork waits for another bite of cake. No questions. No time.

The door opens. Someone is being pushed in, to the table. They don’t talk either. They don’t ask. They don’t want – anything. They sit, as if they’d be waiting. But nothing happens. Grandma drinks a sip of orange juice.

Minutes later. More people sit at the table. It’s a long one. Three meters further, a wall full of books. Stories. Thoughts, written down. Discoveries. Nobody here will ever read them, I think. They will stay undiscovered. Just like the thoughts of the people at the table. If they think at all. Their faces don’t tell anything. They look void.

An other lady is supposed to eat her cake. Instead, she is fiddling with the edge of her bib. Wants to repair a thread looking out. But in reality, she is causing more damage to it. She doesn’t realise, though. A woman in a white robe checks back, reminds her to eat her cake, by pointing to it. The lady sees the cake and takes a bite. And then continues to fiddle. As if she’d make a difference.

Later, grandma is sitting in the yard. The sun is shining. There is a large umbrella and a table with some chairs. She doesn’t need a chair. She has her own chair, with wheels. Desire to say anything? Not at all. Desire to tell anything? Neither. I take her hand. She looks at me – and smiles. Are you feeling well? I ask. She smiles and says Yes. Do you want to stay out here, or get to your room? I want to stay here, she replies. It’s lonely in either place.

After all, she smiled …