Therhythmofaday—not of a schedule.

Whoever wishes, wakes up. Staff help with bathing and dressing, without rush, for those who need it. Coffee with milk is ready by 7:30 — Mrs M., always the first to arrive, has the paper in hand by 7:45.

Breakfast is served between 8:00 and 9:30 — no one has to hurry. The cook takes out soft-boiled eggs for those who asked last night, cheese, homemade jam, warm bread. Whoever wants it in their room, receives it there, on a tray, with a small flower placed on it.

Those who can and wish step out into the park, accompanied or alone. 200 metres round trip, two benches along the way, a tree under which Mrs R. stopped last Sunday to breathe for 5 minutes longer than she planned — and stayed to read until 11:30. That is good.

For those who prefer to stay, the morning papers are in the lounge, Mr P.'s radio (which picks up Radio Cultural without static), or a game of chess with Mr L. — who, at 83, still beats everyone.

We gather at 12:45 for soup. People arrive one by one, with calm steps. The kitchen assistant places plates on the table — each resident is asked if they are okay with the portion, if they want less bread.

The second course arrives at 13:15 — on Wednesdays it is meat pie made by Mrs N., our cook, from her mother-in-law's recipe from Bran. Fridays we have fish. Sundays, roast. Those on a diet receive the adapted version — and no one feels excluded.

After lunch, people settle in — wherever they feel best. Mr P. plays a game of backgammon with Mrs G. (she wins more often than he does). Mrs M., the former mathematics teacher, reads poetry on the sofa. A few go back to their rooms for a short nap.

The activity schedule is posted on a board at the entrance to the lounge — but it is not mandatory. Tuesday, games. Wednesday, reading aloud. Thursday, music. Friday, cakes. Saturday, film. Sunday, service for those who wish.

The 5 o'clock tea is the most sacred moment of the day. Not because tea cannot be had at any other hour, but because at 5 the terrace receives that golden light that makes everything better.

We serve black tea with milk, green tea, infusions. Simple biscuits, sometimes pricomigdale made by Mrs N. The medical assistant passes discreetly by each person. Sometimes we speak. Sometimes there is silence. Silence, when shared, is still conversation.

Toward evening, visits usually arrive. Sons and daughters who pass by after work, grandchildren coming from school with drawings. We have a separate room for video calls — for residents whose children live in Germany, England, Italy, Spain.

On Thursday evenings, Cristina calls from Munich. Mr V. tells her how his day went. On Friday evenings, Andrei calls from Stuttgart. His father shows him the new painting he drew. These moments are not scheduled, not restricted.

Dinner is light, by design — soup, sandwich, salad, omelette, fish. Whoever wants a glass of wine (just one), receives it (with medical agreement). Dinner starts at 19:00 and extends until 20:30 — those who arrive late, eat late. No one is turned away.

After dinner, things grow quieter. The lounge keeps gentle lights. A few stay talking, others go to their rooms to read or listen to the radio. Night nurses come on shift at 22:00.

The main corridor lights are turned off at 22:00 and the gentle, warm ones are turned on, allowing staff to check without waking anyone. The night nurse is always present — any call receives a response within 2-3 minutes at most.

For residents who need night-time treatment, administration follows protocol — discreet, without ceremony. And then, the house falls asleep. With dear ones in warm beds, with someone watching the corridor, with Tâmpa in the background.