The sun had barely risen when the village courtyard began to stir. The roosters were still crowing, yet the first bursts of children's laughter were already floating through the cool morning air. Standing on the doorstep of the house, Mylova watched them run barefoot across the packed earth, their brightly colored clothes fluttering like banners in the wind.
Louis, leaning casually against the fence, joined her with a warm smile.
— You should join them. They don't bite… well, not all of them.
— Very reassuring, she replied, laughing.
A small group of children ran up to surround her.
— Mylova! Come play with us! We're racing to the big tree and back.
— And what if I lose? she asked, raising an eyebrow.
— Then you have to make us pancakes! shouted a little boy, grinning from ear to ear.
She accepted the challenge. The race began in a cloud of dust, the quick, light rhythm of bare feet beating against the earth. The great tree at the end of the path drew closer with every stride. Mylova, laughing freely, felt the long-forgotten energy of childhood games rush back to her.
When they returned to the village, breathless but smiling, she spotted Margaret sitting under the shade of a great oak. Her hands worked deftly with knitting needles, weaving a soft woolen blanket. Two quiet children sat nearby, watching every move with wide-eyed attention.
— What are you making? Mylova asked, settling beside her.
— A blanket for the baby, Margaret replied gently. I want him to have something warm from his very first day.
The children laid out balls of yarn in every color around her.
— Choose, Mylova. Which would make the best border for the blanket?
She hesitated between a deep blue and a soft green before handing her the green one.
— This one. It reminds me of morning grass.
Margaret nodded with approval and resumed her work. The steady click of needles, the quiet chatter of the children, and the soft whisper of the wind wove together into a peaceful rhythm.
Not far away, a young man was setting up a large white canvas on an easel. He placed jars of vivid paint at his feet, each one gleaming in the light. Curious, Mylova stepped closer.
— What will you paint?
— You, if you stand still long enough, he answered with a grin.
She laughed, staying just long enough to see the first strokes take shape—capturing the morning light and the tender green of the trees around them.
A sweet aroma caught her attention. An elderly man, seated behind a small cart, was caramelizing nuts in a copper pan.
— Come, have a taste, he offered, handing her a small paper cone.
The warmth of the roasted nuts seeped into her fingers, and the sweet, crunchy flavor brought an unrestrained smile to her lips.
Louis joined her then, holding a small piece of hand-carved wood.
— Looks like you're having a good morning.
— The best in a long time, she replied, her eyes bright.
After savoring the caramelized nuts, Mylova and Louis wandered toward a small gathering near the central square. An old man was tuning a violin under the watchful eyes of two young boys, each holding a drum.
— Sit down, he invited warmly. We're rehearsing for next month's celebration.
The first notes rose softly, tentative at first, before settling into a steady rhythm. The drums answered the strings, weaving a simple yet lively melody. Some children began clapping in time, and even Louis—usually reserved—let himself attempt a playful dance step.
— You should join them on stage, teasing Mylova.
— Only if you sing, he replied, chuckling.
A few steps away, an enticing aroma drifted toward them. A woman of Beninese origin was stirring a large pot filled with a thick, fragrant stew.
— This is akassa, she announced proudly. Go on, have a taste.
She served them each a small portion, accompanied by a fiery red sauce. The flavor was rich and slightly tangy, with a warmth that slowly bloomed in the throat.
— This is… unique, Mylova said, savoring each bite.
— Back home, the woman explained, we say that if you share akassa with someone, you'll be forever bound to them.
They thanked her sincerely and continued their walk. Along the way, they passed a circle of young girls, each with a square of fabric in her lap, carefully embroidering colorful patterns—flowers, birds, even tiny scenes of daily life.
— These are for decorating the community hall, one of them explained shyly. Everyone adds a piece of their story here.
Touched, Mylova sat with them for a moment, listening to their bursts of laughter and the quiet, secret stories whispered from one to another.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Louis suggested they return home to drop off their little treasures: a sachet of caramelized nuts, a piece of embroidered fabric, and a small wooden figurine gifted by a child.
Passing the large tree where the morning race had taken place, Mylova paused for a moment. The children were still running and playing, their laughter ringing out like music.
— Here, even the simplest hours taste like celebration, she murmured.
Just as they reached their house, a voice called out from across the lane. It was Monsieur Dumas, holding a basket brimming with fresh vegetables.
— Heading back already? You'll miss the pancake contest!
Mylova's eyebrows lifted.
— A pancake contest?
— Oh yes, he replied mischievously. Every year, we vote for the best recipe… and, I must say, I usually win.
Curious, she followed Louis and Monsieur Dumas to the small square where several tables had been set up. On each, plates of golden pancakes awaited the judges. The air was thick with the mouthwatering scent of sugar, butter, and spices.
— Go on, taste and cast your vote, laughed one of the women.
Mylova took her first bite: a fluffy pancake drizzled with honey. The next was fragrant with cinnamon, making her smile instantly. Then came Monsieur Dumas's creation—slightly crisp at the edges, meltingly soft in the center, with a delicate hint of vanilla and coconut.
— This one… is incredible, she whispered.
— See? he said, puffing up with pride.
When the votes were counted, the winner was—unsurprisingly—Monsieur Dumas, who gave the crowd a theatrical bow.
As people began to drift away, Louis and Mylova made their way home, their fingers still dusted with sugar. On the doorstep, she took a deep breath of the warm village air, still carrying the laughter and scents of the day.
— Yes, she thought, here every morning ends like a small celebration.