That evening, the house felt especially warm — from people's breath, their footsteps, their voices, from the aromas gently drifting from the kitchen and swirling quietly in the air. Grandpa and Grandma had come to visit.
Mio sat on the floor, leaning against the soft couch, watching the grown-ups bustle around. Grandma was unwrapping something, speaking calmly and kindly — sometimes grumbling about modern technology. But there was tenderness in her voice. She stood in the kitchen, not trusting the cooking machine, and kneaded the dough by hand in a wide wooden bowl, just like the one back in her home in the North, a place both strange and mysterious. Steam from the pot rose slowly, curling around the lamps. The air smelled of spices — the same scent that always meant Grandma. One of those smells Mio had known since early childhood: her signature dish, served in only sixteen restaurants across the world. No chef had ever managed to recreate its taste, and no AI could decode the recipe.
"What's wrong with people these days?" Grandma muttered, kneading with her short fingers. "Has it really become that hard to cook something delicious for your loved ones? They throw pre-made packs into the machine — and voilà, food's ready. But who puts soul into that food? What are all these machines for? To make us forget how to cook?"
Mio smiled. He didn't understand all the words, but he could already tell — it would taste amazing.
At the edge of the table, Grandpa was scrolling through a newsfeed on his holographic screen, but his gaze drifted past it. He kept glancing at his grandson, as if comparing something deep inside himself.
Mio's father was sitting in an armchair, talking to someone over the comm. He was working on a project he'd dreamed of since childhood — giving dogs the ability to speak. He imagined a world where our furry friends could say, "Let's go to the park," or even "I love you." The technology was on the verge of a breakthrough, but it required a laboratory in a new location. Investors were willing to support the project if a suitable site could be found — a place where the administration would approve experimental installations.
Meanwhile, Mio's mother was reviewing the results of their relocation request. The doctor who treated Mio had submitted an application — and today it was approved. The family had to choose where to go: somewhere with a mild climate, the sea, subtropics — and hope that Mio's health would slowly begin to recover. But among those options, where would his father's work also fit in? No one knew yet.
At dinner, Grandma brought out a dish in a deep ceramic bowl, sealed with a lid of fragrant dough. She leaned in close and said softly to Mio:
"This is for you. I put all my love into it. Eat the noodles first, then you'll get my meat pie with sweet tea."
He nodded. A small bowl of hot broth with fine noodles steamed quietly in front of him. He couldn't take his eyes off it.
That evening, the conversation at the kitchen table was long and quiet. The scent of shaaki root tea and freshly baked bread filled the room. Grandpa offered to sell the school. Grandma — the rights to her restaurant chain. All for the sake of supporting their children and grandson. But Mom shook her head. And Dad, looking gently into his parents' eyes, said:
"We're managing. You've already helped us so much — we're truly grateful."
Mio's father had always been thoughtful, direct, and honest. It made him uncomfortable to take his parents' money. But he also knew: accepting help in hard times was important — especially when it came to a child's health.
Mio said nothing. But he was listening closely, pretending to push bread crumbs around his plate. The words settled inside him. He saw the genuine gratitude his parents felt for their elders.
The next day, Grandpa and Grandma took Mio for a walk. The air was cool, and yellow-brown maple leaves rustled beneath their feet. Grandpa carried the boy in his arms, and Mio stared up at the sky.
Above the buildings floated a web of patterns — the city's protective shield, shielding them from passing transit capsules. It was transparent but marked with faint lines, like ancient runes etched in air. Mio didn't know what the lines were, but they reminded him of the patterns in his dreams.
Grandma walked beside them, telling stories about how she used to stroll through market stalls picking out spices — the very ones that became the heart of her secret recipe. She laughed, watching Mio reach slowly toward her thermos filled with hot apple tea.
It was on that quiet street, where the leaves whispered and the wind tugged gently at Grandpa's coat collar, that he suddenly spoke. Not loudly. Calmly, as always:
"You know," he said, "I dreamed all my life that you, Mio, would study at my school. I spent years crafting good methods to help children truly feel this wonderful world. I always knew you were special. I wanted to pass on everything I taught even the most difficult children. But…" — he paused, looking up — "if the universe decided otherwise, then maybe it's because it's preparing another path for you."
He said no more. Grandma, watching him, sighed now and then — as if there was something more in his words than just talk of schools or businesses.
Grandpa carried his grandson in his arms — firm and gentle. And Mio looked up through the shield, watching clouds drift and flying cars move beneath them. The crisp air wrapped around him like a whisper:
Everything will be okay.