The comforting aroma of simmering broth, sweet soy glaze, and fried tempura filled the kitchen air, casting a cozy warmth across the walls of our home. Ai moved with graceful precision between the stove and the countertop, carefully arranging Natsumi's favorite dishes on ceramic plates—tamago-yaki, crispy karaage, and a small bowl of sweet red bean paste dumplings. Her long black hair was tied into a gentle bun, a loose strand brushing the side of her face as she wiped her hands with a towel. Her expression was calm, but her eyes shimmered with something deeper—intuition, faith, and quiet anticipation.
She didn't know where we were exactly, but somehow, she just knew we would return.
Call it a woman's intuition.
She paused, turning her head toward the door as if hearing something.
Then—a knock.
Ai's heart skipped.
"Coming!" she called out, voice light with a strange kind of certainty.
