(Sendai — Morning, 2051)
The shop looked different in daylight.
Same fogged window, same wooden counters —
but sunlight made even the chipped bowls look alive.
Kaiya moved behind the stove, humming off-key, sleeves rolled.
The broth trembled with slow bubbles, patient, like it had nowhere else to be.
The bell above the door jingled.
Teo stepped in, coat damp with snow.
He looked like someone who'd forgotten what to do with free time.
"You said morning," he said.
"I said tomorrow," she corrected. "Morning was your choice."
He nodded toward the counter. "Lesson still on?"
Kaiya handed him an apron. "Lesson one: surrender your pride."
He took it without argument.
Scene — "Patience"
They stood side by side at the counter.
Kaiya mixed flour and water; Teo followed with slow precision.
"You knead until it fights back," she said. "Then stop before you break it."
The dough clung stubbornly to his palms.
He frowned. "It's not cooperating."
"Maybe it's you," she said, grinning.
He gave her a look — somewhere between confusion and mock threat.
"You're enjoying this."
"Of course," she said. "You look like a man trying to solve a poem with muscles."
He shook his head, laughing quietly.
It sounded unfamiliar, even to him.
Scene — "Burnt Batch"
The first attempt failed.
The noodles broke apart in the pot, sinking like confetti at a sad parade.
Kaiya clapped once. "Tragic. But colorful."
"Is this the part where you fire me?"
"Not yet. Failure's part of the flavor."
He smirked. "You read that off a calendar."
"Several calendars, actually."
She tasted the broth, winced, added soy sauce until it forgave her.
Teo watched, silent, oddly calm.
Scene — "The Old Rhythm"
While the soup simmered, she caught him idly bouncing a stray onion on his palm —
absent-minded, steady, almost rhythmic.
"You do that a lot," she said.
"Do what?"
"Drum invisible beats. Like your hands remember a job they're not doing anymore."
He shrugged. "Used to play."
"Music?"
"Basketball."
She looked up, curious but not prying. "Good at it?"
He paused. "Once."
She smiled. "Figures. You have that whole 'quiet winner who retires early' energy."
He almost laughed. "That's one way to put it."
"Why stop?"
He thought for a moment, eyes on the broth.
"Some sounds fade before you're ready."
Kaiya nodded slowly, as if she understood — and maybe she did.
"Then you find new ones," she said. "That's why you're here."
He didn't argue.
Scene — "Aftertaste"
They ate at the counter, the snow outside soft as flour dust.
The soup was imperfect — too thick in places, too shy in others —
but it tasted like warmth that hadn't learned boundaries yet.
Kaiya slurped loudly on purpose.
Teo raised an eyebrow. "That's illegal in some countries."
"It's called appreciation," she said. "Show respect to the broth."
He tried, failed, coughed.
She burst out laughing, nearly spilling her bowl.
"Okay," he said. "Disrespect noted."
Their laughter hung in the air until it melted into quiet.
Steam curled between them, steady as breathing.
Kaiya leaned her chin on her hand. "You know… you're not that bad at this."
"At cooking?"
"At staying."
He looked at her, surprised, then down at his bowl.
"I don't usually stay anywhere."
"Then this is practice," she said softly.
He nodded once, barely. "Practice."
Closing Image
They cleaned together in silence — bowls clinking, water running.
Kaiya hummed again; Teo found himself tapping along without thinking.
Outside, snow drifted past the window, light as dust.
Inside, warmth settled like it had made up its mind.
As he turned to leave, Kaiya called after him,
"Tomorrow again?"
He hesitated at the door.
"If the soup forgives me."
"It always does," she said.
The bell chimed when he left, and for the first time in years,
Kaiya realized she wasn't waiting for anyone —
she was simply waiting for tomorrow.
[END OF ACT IV — "Aftertaste"]
(title fades in)
NEXT: "Home." — where warmth learns to stay.