A summer afternoon lunch, steeped in golden hush and easy laughter. The table is dressed in Artchives India linen; soft, hand printed with motifs of grand leaves and yellow baby flowers. A quiet nod to the floral world of summer. Strewn across the table are green leaves and sprays of baby’s breath, like nature had casually wandered in and decided to stay. Everything breathes a kind of slow, artful elegance. The air is warm but forgiving. Glasses catch the sun, and the scent of citrus and cardamom drifts softly. Dishes arrive not in courses but in moments—cold salads, flaky breads, something grilled, something borrowed from a grandmother’s notebook. And then there’s the conversation ; effortless, unfolding like a linen napkin across your lap. Books, dreams, old houses, future travels. The kind that doesn’t compete with the food or the flowers, but belongs to the moment like they do. The kind that makes you lose track of time, until the shadows grow longer and you realize this was the real feast.