The alarm clock showed 7:34 a.m. when Kenji opened his eyes. Outside, the London sky was grey, like almost every morning since their arrival. But this grey didn't depress him. There was something peaceful in this diffuse light, in the muffled sound of fine rain against the window.
Kenji lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the waking city. A double-decker bus passed in the distance, its engine rumbling dully. Birds sang somewhere. Life went on, indifferent to his existence.
His new phone vibrated.
The screen displayed his grandfather's name. Kenji picked up immediately, as he always did. There was something comforting in these morning calls, that familiar voice crossing time zones to remind him that in Fukuoka too, someone was thinking of him.
"Kenji!" Takeshi Arashi's voice resonated, warm despite the distance. "You're awake, you. Tell me your brother isn't running around yet."
"He's asleep," Kenji said, looking towards the adjoining door. "He watched a documentary about the royal guards until late."
Grandfather laughed, that deep, warm laugh Kenji had always known. "That boy! He wants to learn everything, see everything. He takes after me." A sound of a cup, somewhere in Fukuoka — grandfather always had his green tea at a fixed time. "Listen, Kenji. I'm calling because today, you're going to meet someone important."
Kenji sat up slightly in bed. "The contact?"
"Yes. But it's more than a contact." Grandfather paused, and Kenji sensed an unusual gravity in his voice. "It's your grandmother. Eleanor."
Kenji blinked. He knew he had a maternal grandmother, of course. She sometimes appeared on screen during New Year's video calls, always briefly, always a bit distant. But he had never really thought about her. She was a voice, an image, not a real person.
"Eleanor Ashworth," he said. "The former Prime Minister."
"You remember." Grandfather sounded pleased. "Yes. She wants to meet you. In person, not through a screen."
Kenji looked out the window. The rain had stopped, giving way to a light grey sky, almost luminous.
"Why have we never seen her?" he asked. The question came out before he'd even had time to think.
Grandfather sighed. It was a heavy sigh, laden with years and silences. "It's complicated, Kenji. Your mother and she grew apart. Adult stories, misunderstandings, pride." His voice grew softer, more intimate. "But she loves you. She called me every week, to get news of you. She has photos of you everywhere in her house."
"Photos of us," Kenji repeated. "Everywhere. That's a bit much," which made his grandfather laugh.
"What... what is she like?" he asked with curiosity.
Grandfather thought. Kenji imagined him in his study, phone to his ear, looking out at his perfectly maintained Japanese garden.
"She is intelligent, jovial, wonderful, very kind, attentive." He laughed softly. "She has a library that would make you weep with joy. Ancient books, manuscripts, things you only see in museums." His voice became more animated. "I told her about you, about your love for books, your notebooks. She said she couldn't wait to show you her collection."
Kenji felt something move in his chest. Not his reactor. Something else. A diffuse warmth, excitement and curiosity.
"And she really wants to see us?" he asked, tilting his head.
"More than anything, Kenji. More than anything."
The silence lasted a few seconds, filled with everything that hadn't been said.
"Kenji? Are you there?"
"Yes, grandfather." He took a breath. "Thank you for arranging this for us."
"It was her who arranged everything. I just made the calls," he said.
Grandfather lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret. "Be kind to her, okay? She's had a difficult life. But she doesn't show it. She's a strong woman, Eleanor. Sometimes too strong."
"I'll be kind," with a nod.
"I know, my boy. You're always kind. That's why everyone loves you." A sound of a chair, grandfather getting up. "Right, wake up your brother. And tell your parents I'll call them later. They know, of course. But I wanted to tell you first."
Kenji nodded, even though grandfather couldn't see him. "Thank you, grandfather."
"Thank you for being who you are."
The call ended. Kenji stayed still for a long moment, phone in hand, looking out the window without really seeing.
'A grandmother. I can't wait,' he thought.
He got up and knocked on the adjoining door.
"Daichi. Wake up."
A grunt.
"Daichi. It's important."
The door opened to reveal his brother, hair disheveled, eyes still half-closed. He wore an old stretched t-shirt and his favorite pajama shorts, the ones with little printed heroes. "What? What time is it?"
"7:40. Grandfather called."
Daichi woke up instantly. His eyes widened, his posture straightened. "What? What did he say? Are we meeting a hero?"
"Not exactly." Kenji took a breath. He looked at his brother, saw the excitement in his eyes, and wondered how he would react. "The contact we're supposed to see today... it's grandmother."
Daichi blinked. Once. Twice. "Grandmother... the one who's always on the screen at New Year's?"
Kenji nodded.
"The one who sends presents at Christmas?"
"Yes."
"The one who..." Daichi stopped, his brain visibly processing the information. "Wait. We're going to see her IN PERSON? Not on a screen? In the flesh?"
"Yes."
The silence lasted three seconds. Then Daichi exploded.
"WHAT? WE'RE GOING TO SEE OUR REAL GRANDMOTHER? THE FORMER PRIME MINISTER? THE ONE WHO WAS IN ALL THE NEWSPAPERS?"
Kenji stepped back, used to these explosions but never completely prepared. "Calm down."
"I AM CALM! I AM VERY CALM! IT'S JUST THAT — WE'RE GOING TO SEE GRANDMOTHER!" Daichi started bouncing on the spot, his bare feet hitting the floor. "What's she like? Is she nice? Will she talk to us? Will she tell us stories?"
"I don't know. I've never met her either."
"But grandfather told you stuff, right?"
"He said she had a library. And ancient books."
Daichi made a face. "Books? That's it?"
"She was Prime Minister. She met kings and queens."
Daichi's eyes widened again. "She met the QUEEN?"
"Possibly."
"WE'RE GOING TO MEET THE GRANDMOTHER WHO MET THE QUEEN?"
Kenji sighed, but a discreet smile hid at the corner of his lips.
Mom appeared in the doorway of her room, still in her robe, her hair loose falling on her shoulders. She looked tired, but her eyes were soft. "What's all that noise?"
Daichi turned to her, eyes shining, arms spread as if he were about to fly. "Mom! We're going to see grandma! THE GRANDMA!"
Akari had a small, embarrassed smile, a smile Kenji had never seen on her — a mix of nostalgia, regret, and hope. "Ah. Your grandfather called you."
"YES!"
Mom entered Kenji's room, followed by Dad, who had heard everything from the bathroom. He was already dressed, of course — Dad was always ready before everyone else. They sat on the edge of the bed, and Kenji noticed Mom taking Dad's hand.
"We need to explain something to you," said Mom. Her voice was calm, but Kenji perceived a slight vibration, contained emotion. "Your grandmother and I... we haven't always been close."
Daichi sat cross-legged on the floor, all ears. "Why?"
Mom looked at Dad, who nodded, silently encouraging her.
"She was always busy," she said. "Prime Minister, it's a job that takes all your time. She was never there. Meetings, trips, crises. I saw her more on television than in real life." She lowered her eyes. "And when I was your age, I started to resent her. To resent her for not being there, for not seeing me grow up, for choosing her country over her daughter."
Kenji listened in silence, observing the expressions on his mother's face. He saw the little girl she had been, the one waiting in front of the television hoping to catch a glimpse of her mother.
"Then I left for Japan, and we grew even more distant." with a self-deprecating smile. "We spent years without seeing each other, without understanding each other."
Daichi's eyes were moist. He wasn't crying yet, but Kenji saw the tears threatening. "But she watched us on the calls?"
"Every month. Sometimes more. She always asked for news of you. She wanted to know everything — your progress at school, your friends, your Alters, what you liked to eat." Akari looked up, and Kenji saw that her eyes were shining too. "She loves you. She's always loved you. It's just that... life is complicated. Adults make mistakes. And sometimes, they take years to fix them."
Kenji thought of all those times he had seen her face on the screen, without really paying attention. He remembered now — she always smiled, she always said "you've grown," she always asked "how are the boys?"
'She watched us,' he thought. 'She listened to us. She loved us from afar.'
"She has a library," he said to change the subject.
Mom blinked, surprised by the subject change. "How do you know that?"
"Grandfather told me."
Akari smiled — a real smile, this time, lighting up her face. "Yes. She has an incredible library. Books that are hundreds of years old. Manuscripts, first editions, things even museums envy her for. She's collected them forever." She looked at Kenji with particular tenderness. "You'll love it, Kenji. Really."
Kenji said nothing, but he felt a small warmth in his chest.
The car dropped them off in front of an elegant house in the Kensington neighborhood. An immaculate white facade, columns, sash windows with carved frames. A carefully maintained garden in front, with red and white roses perfuming the morning air.
Daichi looked at the house, eyes wide. "It's... it's not a house, it's a PALACE."
"She's a former Prime Minister," said Kenji. "Makes sense."
Mom took a deep breath, visibly nervous. Dad squeezed her hand, a simple gesture that said everything.
The door opened before they could ring.
A woman stood on the threshold. Tall, slim, white hair styled in a strict bun that revealed her finely featured face. She wore a dark blue dress, simple but elegant, and thin glasses perched on her nose. Her eyes — the same warm brown as Mom's — quickly scanned the small family, and Kenji saw they shone with barely contained emotion.
"Akari," she said. Her voice was exactly like the video calls — deep, measured, with that British accent Kenji now recognized. But today, it trembled slightly.
"Mother," said Mom.
They stood face to face for a moment, like two magnets hesitating before coming together. Then Eleanor extended her arms, and Mom threw herself into them. Kenji looked away, out of modesty. Daichi stared fixedly, mouth slightly open, a silent witness to this reunion awaited for so long.
When they separated, Eleanor's eyes were moist. She wasn't crying — Kenji sensed she wasn't the type to cry easily — but her eyes said everything. "Look at you," she murmured. "You're even more beautiful than in my memories."
She turned to Hiroshi and shook his hand firmly. "Hiroshi. Thank you for taking care of my daughter. Truly. Thank you."
Dad inclined his head with the respect he reserved for important people. "It's a pleasure to finally see you again, it's been a long time."
Then Eleanor looked at the boys.
Her eyes lingered first on Daichi. She examined him from head to toe, and Kenji saw her gaze soften. "You, you're Daichi. The one who makes noise. The one who wants to be a hero." She smiled — a real smile, erasing years from her face. "Your grandfather sent me videos of you training. Tons of videos. You have power, my boy. And determination."
Daichi blushed to the tips of his ears. "Uh... thank you. You really watched all those videos?"
"All of them. Several times. I showed them to my friends. 'Look at my grandson, he's going to become a great hero.'"
Daichi found nothing to say. He stood there, mouth agape, cheeks scarlet.
Then Eleanor looked at Kenji.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were searching for something deep within him. "And you, Kenji. The silent thinker. The one who observes everything, notes everything, understands everything."
Kenji held her gaze. He searched for something to say, but nothing came. So he just nodded.
Eleanor smiled — that same warm smile, but tinged with a particular understanding. "Come," she said. "I have something to show you."
She took his hand — her hand was warm, slightly rough, a hand that had signed treaties and shaken presidential hands — and led him inside, leaving the others to follow.
The house was spacious, furnished with exquisite taste. Paintings on the walls — Kenji recognized some landscapes, a serious portrait of a woman in official attire, undoubtedly a younger Eleanor. Thick carpets on the polished parquet floor. A smell of waxed wood and old paper, that smell Kenji loved so much.
But what immediately caught his eye were the books.
Everywhere.
In the living room, floor-to-ceiling shelves covered all the walls, filled with bindings of all colors, from all eras. In the hallway, carefully aligned stacks against the walls rose almost waist-high. On a coffee table, open books, marked with bookmarks, as if Eleanor were reading several books at once.
Kenji stopped dead.
Eleanor looked at him, amused. "I warned you."
"It's..." Kenji searched for words, but for once, they didn't come. "It's a lot."
"It's a lifetime of reading." She guided him towards a shelf, caressing the bindings with her fingertips with an almost maternal tenderness. "Look. This one is three hundred years old. It belonged to a French philosopher, a certain Voltaire. Do you know him?"
Kenji nodded. "I've read some things. Essays."
Eleanor seemed impressed. "At ten years old?"
"Not all. But some."
She laughed softly. "You really are my grandson." She moved to another book. "This one is a first edition of a nineteenth-century English novel. It was printed during the author's lifetime. It survived two world wars, an industrial revolution, and the appearance of the first Alters." She took it out carefully. "And this one..." She showed a thick volume, with damaged binding, wavy pages. "This one survived a shipwreck. Look, there are still traces of salt water on the pages."
Kenji took the book with an almost religious reverence. He opened it gently, smelled the old paper, the dried salt, the accumulated time. He looked at the yellowed pages, the characters printed centuries ago, by hands long dead.
"Do you read them all?" he asked, voice choked with emotion.
"I have read them, yes. Some several times." Eleanor sat in an armchair by the window, and the grey London light enveloped her like a cloak. "Books are windows, Kenji. To other lives, other eras, other ways of thinking. Each book is a soul speaking to you across time."
Kenji nodded. He understood that, deeply.
He spent the next minutes exploring the library, taking out a book, leafing through it, putting it back carefully. Eleanor watched him, silent, a discreet smile on her lips.
"You have questions," she finally said. "I see it in your eyes."
Kenji stopped, a book in his hand — a collection of Victorian poems, with an emerald green cover. "Why have we never met you before?"
The question was direct, almost brutal. But Eleanor didn't seem offended. On the contrary, she seemed relieved he asked.
"Because your mother and I lost touch for a long time." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "I was too caught up in my work. Too absorbed in my career. I thought what mattered was changing the world, leaving my mark, being someone. And I forgot that what mattered most was my daughter."
She looked out the window, at that grey sky that seemed to hold all the world's secrets. "When she left for Japan, I thought it was a betrayal. That she was turning her back on me, choosing her father over me. I was too proud to understand. Too arrogant to apologize."
Kenji listened, motionless, the book pressed against his chest.
"The years passed. I grew old. I watched your mother live her life through screens, through photos your grandfather sent me. I watched you and your brother grow up through images." She turned to him, and her eyes were moist. "That's no life. That's no family. It's watching others' happiness without being part of it."
"But you watched us."
"I watched you. I listened to you. I know your tastes, your passions, your fears. I know Daichi has wanted to be a hero since he was five, that he collects cards, that he trains every day." She smiled sadly. "I know that you prefer books, that you observe everything, that you note everything in your notebooks. That Bishop says you have enormous potential."
Kenji felt a lump in his throat. "Grandfather tells you everything."
"Everything. He was the only link I had with you. Without him..." She shook her head. "Without him, I would never have become this grandmother who watches her grandsons grow up from afar. But at least I watched them."
Kenji sat on the arm of the opposite armchair. "Do you talk to him often?"
"Every week. Sometimes more." She looked at him with new intensity. "He tells me about your progress. Your way of observing the world, asking questions, never being satisfied with easy answers."
Kenji tensed slightly. "Did he tell you about my notebooks?"
"He told me you write everything down. That you note every detail, every thought, every question." She leaned forward. "I'd like to read them someday. If you're willing."
Kenji hesitated. No one read his notebooks. They were private, his. His most intimate thoughts, his observations, his doubts.
But Eleanor didn't seem to be demanding. She was asking, simply, with a vulnerability he wouldn't have suspected in her.
"Maybe," he said. "Someday."
Eleanor nodded, and her smile was that of someone who had just received a precious gift. "That's a good answer. The best."
Meanwhile, Daichi had invaded the rest of the house.
He ran everywhere, opening doors, exclaiming at every room, asking a thousand questions to his mother and father. "Look at this bathroom! It has a clawfoot tub! And this bedroom! The bed is so big!"
Mom followed him, laughing at his enthusiasm. Dad took notes in his notebook — Kenji knew he was noting details of the house, the architecture, the furniture, out of pure professional habit.
Daichi came across a framed photo in the hallway — a young Eleanor, in official attire, shaking hands with a distinguished man.
"Who's that?" he asked Mom.
"The Prime Minister of Canada, at the time. An official visit."
"So she knows everyone, then?"
"Almost."
Daichi turned to Eleanor, who had just joined them with Kenji. "Did you meet the Queen? Really?"
Eleanor smiled. "Hundreds of times. She's a remarkable woman. Intelligent, cultured, with a surprising sense of humor."
"What's she like? In person?"
"She is... how shall I say... impressive. Not because she's queen, but because she is herself." Eleanor paused. "In fact, she might meet you. I've talked about you to her. She's curious."
Daichi nearly choked on his saliva. "WHAT? THE QUEEN? SHE WANTS TO MEET US?"
"If you're good, yes."
Daichi turned to Kenji, eyes so wide you could see the white all around. "KENJI, DID YOU HEAR? WE'RE GOING TO MEET THE QUEEN!"
Kenji smiled discreetly. "I heard."
Lunch was an event in itself.
The table was set with discreet elegance — fine porcelain, silver cutlery, crystal glasses. A housekeeper, Mrs. Higgins, served the dishes with silent efficiency.
Daichi talked non-stop, asking a thousand questions about grandmother's life, her work, the famous people she had met. Eleanor answered patiently, visibly delighted by this interest.
"And the current king?" Daichi asked between two bites of roast. "Do you know him?"
"Since he was prince. He's a kind man. He likes dogs, gardens, and complicated puzzles."
"Puzzles?"
"He collects antique puzzles. He has hundreds of them."
Daichi found that fascinating. "A king who does puzzles."
"Kings are people like everyone else, Daichi. With hobbies, passions, little quirks."
Kenji, meanwhile, ate in silence, observing. He watched his grandmother — the way she cut her meat precisely, the way she dabbed her lips with her napkin, the way she looked at Daichi with poorly concealed tenderness. He watched his mother, who smiled more than he had seen her smile in a long time. He watched his father, who listened in silence, but whose eyes said everything.
'She loves us,' Kenji thought. 'Really. And we're starting to love her too.'
After lunch, Eleanor proposed a complete tour of the house. Daichi ran everywhere, opening doors, exclaiming at every room. Kenji followed more calmly, looking at details, recording every image.
The house was full of history. Framed photos everywhere — Eleanor with foreign dignitaries, Eleanor signing official documents, Eleanor smiling at protocol events. But also more personal photos: a young Akari on her lap, teenage Akari with a book, young adult Akari at her wedding to Hiroshi.
Kenji stopped before a photo of his mother, around his age. She was sitting in a garden, an open book on her lap, her gaze lost in the distance. She had the same look as him — observant, a bit distant, as if she saw things others didn't.
"She looks like you," said Eleanor behind him.
Kenji turned around. "You think so?"
"A lot. Same way of looking at the world. Same silence." She approached, contemplating the photo with infinite tenderness. "She was like you, at your age. Always a book in hand. Always thinking. I called her my little philosopher."
Kenji looked at the photo again. His mother, with her brown hair and serious expression.
"What changed?" he asked.
Eleanor thought for a long time. "She learned to smile more. To be happy, truly. Not to analyze, understand, control everything." She placed a hand on Kenji's shoulder. "It was your father who taught her, I think. He showed her that you could just... live. Without needing to understand everything."
Kenji looked at his father, who was quietly chatting with Daichi in the living room. Dad was like that — calm, present, soothing.
"You already have that," Eleanor continued. "You're serious, yes. You observe, you think, you note everything. But you're not sad. You're just... you. That's rare, Kenji. Don't lose it."
Kenji didn't know what to answer. So he looked at the photo a while longer, and he tried to understand his mother through that image frozen in time.
The second day, Eleanor took them to a small antiquarian bookshop, nestled in an alley near the Thames. The place was called "The Old Pages" and looked like a dream come true.
Daichi quickly got bored — after ten minutes of looking at dusty books, he tugged on Dad's sleeve. "Can we go see the river?"
Dad looked at Eleanor, who nodded smiling. "Go ahead. I'll keep Kenji."
Daichi, Dad, and Mom left to explore the banks of the Thames, leaving Kenji alone with Eleanor in this paper paradise.
The bookshop was a labyrinth of shelves, stacks of books, smells of old paper, leather, dried ink. The owner, an elderly man with thick glasses and an unkempt white beard, knew Eleanor.
"Lady Ashworth! Still hunting for treasures?"
"Always, Albert." She presented Kenji with pride. "My grandson. He loves books too. More than anything, I believe."
Albert looked at Kenji with renewed interest. "Really? What kind of books?"
Kenji hesitated. "Everything. Especially old things. History. People who lived before."
"Then you're in the right place." Albert guided him to a particular section, at the back of the shop. "Look. These books were printed before your grandparents were born. Some before your great-grandparents were born."
Kenji spent the afternoon digging, reading excerpts, asking questions. Eleanor sat in an armchair by the window, reading quietly, occasionally looking up to watch him with poorly disguised pride.
At the end, Kenji bought a small book — a collection of twentieth-century poems, with worn binding, yellowed pages. He paid with his own money, the one grandfather had given him before departure.
"For you," he said to Eleanor, holding it out.
Eleanor blinked, surprised. "For me?"
"You like old books. And you welcomed us. You showed us your house, your life, your secrets." Kenji shrugged, embarrassed. "It's just a gift," cheeks tinted with a slight blush.
Eleanor took the book, looked at it for a long time. She caressed the cover, opened to a random page, read a poem in silence. When she looked up, her eyes shone.
"Thank you, Kenji." Her voice was choked. "That's the most beautiful gift I've been given in a long time. Truly."
Kenji said nothing, but he felt strangely happy.
The third day, Eleanor brought out her own notebooks.
They were thick journals, leather-bound, some new, others worn by years. They were filled with tight, elegant handwriting, covering every page without leaving space.
"I note everything too," she said. "Always have. My thoughts, my observations, my doubts, my joys. Each notebook is a year of my life."
Kenji looked at them with intense curiosity. He had never seen anyone else's notebooks. The idea that someone else could have this same need to write, to record, to understand — it stirred something in him.
"You can read one, if you like," said Eleanor. "The one from the year I was elected. That was a special year."
Kenji took the notebook carefully, as if holding a sacred object. He opened it to a random page.
May 3rd. Endless meeting with the cabinet. No one agrees on anything. I remember why I wanted this job — to change things. But changing things is slow. It's compromises. It's accepting that the better is the enemy of the good. Sometimes, I wonder if my daughter will ever forgive me for all these absences.
He looked up. "You write like you talk."
Eleanor laughed — a clear laugh, youthful, surprising for a woman her age. "That's what they say. My staff hated my written notes. They said I was too direct."
Kenji read a few pages. Descriptions of meetings, reflections on difficult decisions, moments of doubt, fatigue, pride. But also more personal passages — thoughts about her daughter, about the loneliness of power, about nights when she stared out the window wondering if she had made the right choices.
A whole life, condensed in these journals.
"It's like my notebook," he said. "But older. And more important."
"Older and more boring, I imagine."
"No." Kenji shook his head with conviction. "It's interesting. Really. It's a life."
Eleanor looked at him with an expression Kenji couldn't identify — pride, tenderness, immense gratitude. "You're truly special, Kenji."
"That's what they tell me."
She laughed again. "I hope you never change."
On the evening of the third day, they all dined together in the large dining room. Daichi recounted his adventures in the streets of London — the people he'd seen, the Alters he'd observed, a newspaper vendor whose arms stretched to reach customers, a woman whose hair floated like seaweed in the wind.
"Alters are everywhere here too," he said. "Like in Japan. But different. People use them for their work, for their life. It's normal."
Mom and Dad listened smiling. Eleanor asked questions, laughed at his exaggerations, encouraged him to say more.
Kenji, meanwhile, looked at his family — his mother, his father, his brother, his grandmother — gathered around a table, in this old house full of books and history. He thought of all the journey traveled, all those years of distance, this present moment where everything finally seemed in its place.
'It's strange,' he thought. 'Three days ago, she was a voice on a screen. Now, she's here. She's real. She's part of us.'
The fourth day, they had to leave.
Eleanor stood at the door, straight as ever, but Kenji saw the tremor in her hands, the slight quiver of her lips. She hugged Akari for a long time, whispering things that Kenji couldn't hear. She shook Hiroshi's hand with warmth, thanking him again.
Then she knelt before Daichi, taking his face in her hands. "You, be good. Train hard. Become the hero I know you can be. And call me. Promise?"
Daichi nodded, eyes wet. "Promise."
She turned to Kenji.
She looked at him for a long moment, as if memorizing every detail. Then she pulled him into a hug — strong, warm, full of everything she hadn't been able to say for years.
"Your grandfather was right," she whispered in his ear. "You're the best of us. Take care of that notebook. Take care of that mind. Take care of that heart."
Kenji hugged her back, awkwardly, but sincerely.
When they separated, Eleanor had tears on her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away.
"Come back," she said. "Both of you. Come back whenever you want. This is your home now."
Kenji nodded.
They got into the car. Daichi waved frantically from the window. Eleanor waved back, standing on her doorstep, straight and proud, until the car turned the corner and she disappeared from view.
In the car, Daichi was silent for once. He looked out the window, watching London pass by.
Kenji opened his notebook and wrote:
Day 11 — London
We met grandmother. Really met her. Not through a screen.
She has an immense library. Books that have crossed centuries, oceans, shipwrecks. She's read them all. She loves them the way I love my notebooks.
She's been watching us all along. In the calls, in the photos grandfather sent. She knows our tastes, our fears, our dreams. She knows Daichi has wanted to be a hero since he was five. She knows I want to understand.
I gave her a book. An old poetry collection. She cried — a little, just enough for me to see. I didn't know a gift could do that.
She showed me her notebooks. Years of notes, observations, doubts. Like mine, but older. Wiser. More human.
In two days, we meet the queen. And the British number one, Carol Danvers. Grandmother arranged it. Grandmother.
That word — grandmother — is starting to have meaning now. Real meaning.
I don't know what the future holds. But I know these three days changed something. In me. In us.
He closed the notebook and looked out the window. London glowed softly in the night, indifferent and magnificent.