He stood on the windowsill, not moving.
The little boy wore gray wool socks, soft blue pants, a white cotton shirt, and a warm knitted vest. His grandmother had made these clothes with her own hands — just for him, their only grandchild.
His breath touched the glass, leaving a light trace that disappeared right away.
His fingers rested against the smooth window, which had a warm surface to prevent fogging. He watched a drop of water slowly slide down, leaving a barely visible mark.
He was three years old.
Mio couldn't explain what he felt, but he clearly understood — his parents were not talking about the weather.
The apartment was warm. His mother was silent. A cup of tea stood untouched.
His father slowly moved his finger along the surface of the info-ring. A holographic panel appeared above his hand, opening smoothly.
He was scrolling through a report, coming from Mio's biosystem. But his eyes weren't focused.
A doctor entered.
He arrived using the SkyLoop monorail line. When the train passed over the residential area, one of the capsules detached — it was a rental cabin made for quick landings. After flying over a few blocks, the capsule softly landed on the roof of their home.
These capsules could be reserved in advance or picked up from a station by paying for the route.
The front door registered the arrival automatically, but a doorbell still rang.
The man wore a neat suit with water-resistant fabric and held a small case in his left hand. His hair was short and gray. His face looked calm. His voice was smooth, professional, without pressure.
"Good afternoon. It's been raining non-stop for a day. Is it another weather reaction?"
"Yes," the father replied. "This is the third flare-up this month. We can't handle it anymore."
The doctor came in and did a basic check-up.
A small holographic scanner checked the organs, chemical levels, and tissue tone. The data went directly into the child's biosystem and synced with his health archive.
He nodded at Mio. Mio quietly nodded back.
"No decline, all functions are stable, but still in a phase of compensated instability," the doctor said, checking the screen. "The body is working with an energy loss.
In protocol terms — FNEE: functional neuro-energy efficiency. This is not a disease.
More like an adaptive disorder. Everything he gets from food goes directly into supporting basic functions. No energy is saved. No reserves are built."
The father frowned. He spoke quietly.
"We know that. What worries us is that he's become more tired and quiet. Sometimes he just lies there. His eyes are open, but it feels like he's not here with us."
The doctor explained:
"That's normal. His sensory channels are unstable. Especially in a city environment. The system offers medication support, and you're using it correctly. But you can see it yourself — the effect is temporary. Each new series of medicine gives a response, but prices keep rising, and his adaptation is slowing down."
The father sighed sadly, thinking over the doctor's words.
"We give him the pills by system alerts. From the new batch. Based on your advice. They work, but it all feels temporary. The effect is going down," the father confirmed.
The doctor sat down.
"Your family is not in a critical zone. But the boy lives in a constant state of systemic fatigue.
It's not a gene error. Not a physical problem. It's a form of adaptation that doesn't match this environment.
Noise, pressure shifts, quick magnetic changes in weather — his neural system takes it all in directly, without filtering.
His body can't switch into recovery mode."
His mother placed her hands on her knees, as if calming herself.
"What now?"
The doctor replied:
"Climate is the key. Stable humidity, low background noise, access to a natural bioactive environment. Subtropics. Sea. Low air pressure. A simple ecosystem.
This can give his body a chance to shift into slow recovery mode, and maybe the energy adaptation core will form by itself."
Mio's mom asked him:
"Just fresh air?"
"Not exactly. It's the whole field — ion levels, moisture, sunlight rhythm, air pressure density. All of it changes how his system works.
You can send a request to the city network. The system will help find available places for moving."
He packed his things, stood up, nodded, and left.
The door closed. Silence.
Mio stood by the window. He hadn't turned around the whole time.
Then he whispered softly, looking at the street:
"I'm from here. But not all of me."
His mother came over. She gently touched his back.
"What is it, sweetheart?"
He didn't answer.
The drops on the glass kept sliding down, and he followed them with his eyes — as if they were a road.