The Lost Supper
What happens if we follow our nose and forget our heart?
The Smell of Bread
It started with bread.
Not the kind wrapped in cloth or sold by weight—but real bread. Warm. Sweet. Yeast rising through air tinged with butter and cinnamon. It came unbidden, threading its way up the wooded path like a whispered promise.
He stopped mid-step and sniffed.
“Where’s that coming from?” he muttered, eyes narrowing. There were no houses nearby. No bakeries. Just pine trees and shadows and moss.
But the smell wrapped around his senses, tugging gently. So he followed.
Off the path, through thickets, uphill—until he reached an old iron gate. Tall, spiked, and locked. Beyond it, only stillness. But the scent lingered like a dare.
Stars blinked into the sky.
With a sigh, he turned back.
That night, lentil soup steamed in his bowl. His wife ladled it with care.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know,” he replied, stirring it absently. “I caught a smell in the woods—fresh bread. Like someone was baking it right there among the trees.”
He told her about the cinnamon, the butter, the way it made his stomach ache.
She smiled—small, tight—and said nothing more.
Bread and Cheese
He left earlier the next morning. No breakfast.
This time the scent had changed—cheese. Melted, tangy, married to that same fresh bread. He pictured chunks of crust dipped into golden fondue, the strings of cheese stretching between fingers and teeth.
He brought a rope.
Over the fence he went, boots crunching through brush. The smell grew stronger.
Until he stopped at the edge of a moat. Still water, black and wide. Too far to jump. Too murky to swim.
He strained to see beyond—no smoke, no roof, just bushes.
By nightfall, he sat before a plate with roast potatoes while telling his wife about the cheese.
She served him pie without comment and went to bed early.
Roasted Temptation
Dawn broke, and he was already on the move.
Today the air was heavy with meat—roasted, seasoned, dripping. The kind of smell that made your mouth water before you even knew you were hungry.
He carried a ladder this time, balancing it across the moat like a bridge.
He crossed.
On the other side, the smell pulled him higher—until he reached a wall. Towering. Smooth. Unclimbable. No gate, no cracks, no way through.
He cursed, hands on hips. “Tomorrow,” he said aloud, “I’ll bring a saw.”
That evening, he barely touched the chicken his wife had made. Talked instead about pork belly and crispy skin and the wall that stood in his way.
She nodded. Quiet. Something unreadable in her eyes, like smoke before a fire.
The Wall and Beyond
Before dawn, he returned. Saw in hand.
He felled two pine trees, lashed them together, leaned them against the wall.
Then climbed.
No food smells at first. Only forest air—pine needles, damp bark, something floral and fading.
He reached the top.
And there it was.
Nestled between the trees, tucked low into a hollow, stood a small cottage. Smoke curling from the chimney. A candle glowing behind the kitchen window.
Inside, a woman moved. Stirring a pot. Wiping flour from her hands. Her hair was different, her movements familiar.
The front door was open.
No husband in sight.
The scent rose gently—soup, maybe. Lentils. Rosemary. Bread warming in the oven.
He watched, unmoving.
For a moment, he almost called out.
But he didn’t.
He climbed down again, slower this time, and turned for home.
The Stranger
The house was dark.
He stepped inside, calling out, “Honey, I’m home! What’s for dinner?”
Silence.
Two plates on the table—picked clean. A turkey skeleton, crumbs of pie, empty wine glasses. His best bottle stood bone-dry in the middle of it all.
He searched the kitchen. Nothing left.
In the bedroom, someone lay under the blanket.
He reached out, touched a shoulder—then recoiled.
A beard.
The man sat up, eyes wide. “Who are you?”
The Stranger’s Story
They sat across from each other in the glow of the oil lamp—two men: one with an empty belly, the other still full but hollow-eyed.
The bearded man cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said quietly. “I followed a smell.”
The other man didn’t speak.
“It started with soup,” the stranger continued. “My wife baked fresh bread that day. I didn’t touch it. I told her I wasn’t hungry. Truth is, I couldn’t stop thinking about the delicious lentil soup I smelled out in the woods.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“The next day, I smelled potatoes. Roasted. Herbed. My wife was preparing cheese fondue, but I left before she was ready.”
He glanced away, voice low.
“I kept thinking—just one more day, and I’d find it. The perfect meal. The scent of something… more.”
He shook his head. “Then came the chicken. Roasted skin, garlic, gravy. My wife was baking a roast that day when I shut the door behind me. Didn’t even say goodbye.”
He paused.
“I crossed rivers. Crawled through thorns. There were brigands in the clearing. Came back the next day with a sword. They were gone. But the smell was still there. And a little gate.”
He looked up at last.
“I knocked. Your wife opened it. She looked surprised—tired, too. But she said, ‘Dinner’s ready.’”
He exhaled. “It was the first real food I’d had in days. I ate like a beast. Asked if I could rest a moment. Closed my eyes. And when I opened them… you were here.”
The stranger stood and looked toward the window. “I need to go,” he murmured. “I need to see if she’s still there.”
“I somehow doubt it,” said the first man.
The Last Supper
Far away, two women pushed open the tavern door.
Dusty cloaks. Mud on their boots. They moved like women who’d walked for miles without stopping.
They took a booth by the hearth and sat without speaking for a moment.
“It was a long journey,” said one. “But worth it.”
The other smiled faintly. “I could smell the food from outside.”
They waved down the chef.
He eyed them with curiosity. “Just the two of you?”
One of the women slid three gold coins across the table.
“Bring us the best you’ve got. Bread, cheese, meat, pie. And something sweet.”
“No husbands joining later?” he asked.
They looked at each other.
“Just us,” one said.
And both of them smiled.
The End
The sound of that bread is making me hungry.