The temperature was feverish, every breath was painful in the lungs, and the world outside the window existed somewhere very far away, behind an impenetrable wall of weakness. A week in bed has turned you into a pale semblance of a human being. Even the thought of eating was disgusting. Of course, colleagues showed wonders of care, bringing light broths and fruits directly to bed. But you just smiled gratefully, unable to overcome even the minimal effort required to bring the spoon to your mouth. The appetite seemed to have disappeared irrevocably.

And finally, the day has come when some inner force, like a flash of hope, pierced your lifeless state. You sat down. Then slowly, carefully, they put their feet on the floor. Your head was spinning, but you stubbornly moved forward, towards the kitchen – towards the source of something... alive, which will make you forget about the endless nightmare of illness.

The kitchen, usually noisy and active, seemed strangely quiet and huge to you. And suddenly you saw Raphael, your appraiser, with a large spoon in his hand, stirring something fragrant and rich in a saucepan. It smelled of chicken and light spices, a smell that suddenly made your stomach respond with a barely perceptible rumble.

Raphael, noticing you, immediately turned pale. His eyes, full of concern, ran over your figure, assessing your still uncertain gait. He instinctively took a step towards you, ready to catch you if you stumble.

— «I was making soup for you to eat,» — he said softly, his voice full of hidden anxiety and concern. There was a sincere desire to help in his eyes, a desire that was far more valuable than any medicine.

The soup was perfect. Tender, warm, with a few vegetables and pieces of tender chicken.