This is a made-up story. In a courtyard behind a meeting hall, a big pot sits over a low fire. The lamps are strung up before anyone arrives, and someone is always late with the bread.
People take turns: chopping, stirring, laying the long table. Some come every week; others turn up once and stay a while. Nobody is asked to explain why they came.
There is a tree in the corner of the courtyard, and in the evening a few fireflies find it. The bowls go round, and the talk goes round after them.
It is only supper. That is rather the point.