The medical wing cafeteria was far quieter than Jim had imagined.
Not the forced silence of a place where people were afraid to speak, but a deliberate quiet—one that had been carefully shaped. There were no long queues stretching across the room, no sharp voices calling out numbers or orders. Instead, the space felt open, almost generous. Tables were spaced far enough apart that wheelchairs could pass through without hesitation, without the need for awkward adjustments or apologies.
Nothing here felt rushed.
The ceiling lights cast a steady, muted glow. They didn't flicker. They didn't hum. The brightness sat at a precise balance—strong enough to keep the space alert, yet soft enough that Jim's eyes didn't ache when he looked up. It was the kind of lighting you stopped noticing after a few minutes, which meant it was doing exactly what it was designed to do.
The air carried the scent of food.
Not the flat, uniform smell Jim associated with hospitals—the kind that clung to fabric and erased appetite—but something unmistakably human. Soup steamed gently, its warmth rising in thin currents. Somewhere nearby, a lid slid against metal. Trays touched, producing brief, clean sounds that faded almost immediately.
It smelled like people actually ate here.
His grandfather was guided to a table by the window.
The AI assistant adjusted the wheelchair height with quiet precision, aligning him perfectly with the tabletop. The movement was smooth, almost organic. Once the adjustment was complete, the machine stepped back half a pace and went still, its presence reduced to a steady indicator light.
"Sit," Grandpa said, patting the chair opposite him.
Jim obeyed automatically.
For a moment, he didn't know where to focus. The menu lay unopened in front of him, yet his eyes kept drifting back to his grandfather instead.
He looked… better.
Not recovered. Not suddenly healthy. His skin was still pale, the signs of age and illness unchanged. But there was clarity in his eyes. A steadiness. Something alert, something present. It was a look Jim hadn't seen in a long time—one that suggested his grandfather wasn't merely enduring his days here, but actually living them.
"The food here is decent," Grandpa said casually, as if reading Jim's thoughts.
"At least it's better than hospital meals."
Jim nodded, the tension in his chest easing just a little.
Then—
"Huh? Jim?"
The voice came from behind, slightly to the side.
Jim stiffened in surprise and turned around.
It was Alma.
She stood a short distance away, holding a tray, her hair pulled back simply. There was nothing formal about her appearance here—no guarded posture, no alertness sharpened by caution. Compared to how Jim had seen her outside, she looked lighter. Looser. As if this place allowed her to set something down.
"What a coincidence," she said as she approached.
Her gaze flicked to his grandfather, and understanding settled almost instantly.
"This is…?"
"My grandfather," Jim said at once, standing up.
"Grandpa, this is Alma."
Alma inclined her head slightly. The movement was natural, practiced, respectful without being stiff.
"Hello."
Grandpa looked her over.
Not rudely. Not intrusively. But thoroughly. His gaze lingered a fraction longer than courtesy demanded, measuring something Jim couldn't quite identify.
Then his lips curved upward.
It was a smile Jim recognized immediately—the kind that always meant trouble.
"Oh—"
"So it's you."
Alma blinked.
"Um… do you know me?"
"No," Grandpa replied without hesitation.
"But I do now."
He turned his head toward Jim, his tone shifting subtly, acquiring weight.
"Decent features. Healthy color. Polite speech."
"Not bad."
Jim felt the heat rush to his face so fast it was almost dizzying.
"Grandpa—!"
"What?" Grandpa waved a hand dismissively.
"Your grandfather praises someone and you don't like it?"
Alma froze for a beat, clearly unprepared.
Then she laughed.
The sound was brief, genuine, unforced.
"You seem to be recovering well," she said.
"Of course," Grandpa nodded.
"I'm taken care of. I eat well. I sleep well."
As he spoke, his gaze returned to Alma.
"If only this girl could be my granddaughter-in-law."
The air froze.
Just for a second.
Then Alma nearly choked.
"Cough—!"
Jim had absolutely no idea where to put his face anymore.
"Grandpa, what are you talking about?!"
"Am I wrong?" Grandpa asked, utterly serious.
"Good wife and mother type."
"Looks well-behaved."
"Good for raising kids."
"Safe childbirth type."
That last phrase tipped the balance.
Nearby tables failed to contain themselves. Someone snorted. Someone else let out a quiet, defeated laugh.
Danny—who Jim hadn't even noticed sitting down with a tray nearby—paused mid-motion. He turned his head away, shoulders trembling faintly.
Alma's ears turned red almost instantly.
But she wasn't angry.
"You're… thinking too far ahead," she said, voice noticeably softer.
Grandpa laughed, deep and unrestrained.
"At my age, if I don't think far ahead, I won't get the chance."
The atmosphere at the table shifted.
The tension broke—not into chaos, but into something warm and light. The laughter wasn't loud, yet it carried easily. It didn't echo. It didn't demand attention.
It simply existed.
And Jim realized, with quiet surprise, that this was the first time in a very long while he had heard laughter like this in a medical facility.
Not laughter meant to cover fear.
Not laughter forced into place.
Just… laughter.
The meal progressed slowly.
Grandpa ate at his own pace. There was no hurry. The AI assistant occasionally adjusted the angle of his utensils, ensuring he didn't strain. The movements were subtle enough that Jim barely noticed them unless he looked directly.
Jim and Alma ate without rushing. Danny said almost nothing, present without inserting himself into the conversation.
Halfway through the meal, Grandpa set his spoon down.
"Jim."
"Yeah?"
"Where are you staying now?"
Jim paused, instinctively glancing at Danny.
Danny nodded.
"I was about to ask."
"After visiting hours, are you heading back to where you stayed last night, or moving into the nearby family housing?"
The answer came out before Jim could stop it.
"Here."
The word landed faster than his own thoughts.
Danny raised an eyebrow.
"You sure?"
Jim nodded.
"Yeah. I'm sure."
The image surfaced immediately.
That room.
Too narrow.
Too quiet.
Like something temporary.
"I don't have a good impression of that place," he said plainly.
Grandpa heard him.
He didn't ask questions.
He only nodded.
"Peace of mind matters more than anything."
After the meal, Alma volunteered to return the trays. Before leaving, she smiled at Jim.
"Let's talk again sometime."
"…Yeah."
Once she was gone, Danny stood.
"I'll handle the arrangements."
"You can move into the family housing tonight."
The wheelchair moved again.
They followed the corridor back toward the room. The path was quiet. Only the soft roll of wheels accompanied them.
When the door opened, gentle lighting filled the room.
Clean.
Orderly.
Not cold.
After Grandpa was settled, he looked at Jim.
"I'm glad you came today."
"You don't have to force yourself to stay with me."
"I'm doing well here."
Jim's throat tightened.
"I know."
He hesitated.
"But I still want to stay."
Grandpa smiled.
No guilt.
No burden.
Only relief.
Danny checked the time.
"I'll take you to the family housing."
Jim looked back one last time.
The AI assistant had entered night-care mode. The indicator light glowed steadily.
Grandpa had closed his eyes.
Not in loneliness.
The door closed softly.
The corridor remained bright.
Jim followed Danny, his steps lighter than when he arrived.
And only then did he understand—
He wasn't staying because he had to.
He was staying because he finally had somewhere he wanted to remain.