Insignificance

Kafka stepped into the kitchen and dining room, where the table was already set, the rich aroma of freshly cooked pasta filling the air. The dishes had been plated beautifully, steam rising from them, the scent of garlic, herbs, and tomatoes mingling perfectly, making the entire space feel warm and inviting.

His eyes immediately landed on Camila, who was finishing up setting the table, carefully placing the last set of utensils down with practiced ease. The golden light from the dining room cast a soft glow on her, making her look effortlessly elegant despite the simple task.

"It smells wonderful." Kafka said, his voice carrying an unmistakable warmth. "Looks like you've outdone yourself again."

Camila glanced at him with a wry smile, shaking her head. "It's the same pasta I always make." She said, her tone dry but playful. "You shouldn't get your expectations too high."