Max stepped off the slide, his sneakers skidding softly against the cracked pavement of Bronnside. The air here was always laced with the scent of street food, engine oil, and distant wind chimes from someone's open window. Rows of corner shops blinked in neon fatigue as the sun dipped low behind the brown-brick apartments. Music flowed into his ears through his earbuds—something upbeat but soft, something that made walking feel a little less like traveling and more like breathing.
He passed a laundry shop run by old Mr. Aziz, then a tech repair place with tangled wires in the window, and finally Alex's Corner—a tight little shop pressed between a cafe and a florist. As he walked by, he paused, mid-step, remembering: Soap. They were out. He doubled back and entered.
The familiar jingle above the door rang out. The inside smelled like stale gum and floor cleaner. Max grabbed a multipack of soap bars and headed out without lingering.
Ten minutes later, he was home.
Max stood at the entry of a tall, peeling-brick building. He pulled out his keys, the blue rubber tag dangling with age, and slipped them into the lock. A click. He stepped inside the familiar hallway lined with chipped tile and the faint smell of incense. Reaching their flat, he opened the door.
"I'm home," he called, slipping his shoes off by muscle memory.
"Welcome home, sweetheart! Come here, quick!" came a voice, light and lively from the kitchen.
He slid his shoes into the drawer, dropped his bag and the soap atop the small wooden table beside it, and shuffled down the hall.
In the kitchen, his grandmother was a blur of motion. Two stovetops going, oven timer blinking, and a tray of dough half-kneaded. She wore oversized red-rimmed glasses and a bright lemon-yellow apron splattered with flour. Her hair was a curly puff of silver streaked with ash-brown, tied into a knot with a chopstick through it. Her face was smooth, youthful, with laugh lines sharp enough to hint at her age but not define it. She moved like a dancer—light on her feet, precise in her work.
"Always at the right time, you," she said without looking. "Come salutate the fried vegetables before they protest."
Max grinned and walked to the stove, taking over the wok of sizzling, caramelizing veggies. They hissed as he flipped them.
"What's for dinner this time?" he asked, eyes flicking between the rainbow-colored vegetables.
"A miracle," she replied dramatically, hands in the dough. "Bulgur rice balls stuffed with spiced lentil paste, served with fried daikon salad and honey-glazed sweet pepper threads. And maybe a splash of yoghurt-hibiscus sauce on the side if I'm feeling generous."
Max blinked. "That sounds... wildly specific."
"I've been watching Turkish-Korean cooking reels," she grinned.
They worked in a synchronized quiet for a while—Max flipping, she kneading. The kitchen smelled like ten cultures' memories all stitched into one.
Soon, they sat across each other at the small square table, eating as the kitchen lights glowed a warm golden.
Max took a bite and sighed. "This is better than any restaurant."
His grandmother chuckled. "It's the coriander salt. And ancestral magic."
She spun into her usual post-dinner fantasy. "Tomorrow, I'm thinking cassava-coconut pancakes for breakfast. Or maybe a savory miso soufflé! Or both! Yes, both!"
Max nodded in rhythm. "With hibiscus glaze?"
"Exactly!" she grinned, pointing a spoon at him.
As she stared thoughtfully into the spice rack, Max stood and collected both their plates. He rinsed and washed them quietly.
"She's gonna be late again today, huh?" he asked over the running water.
His grandmother's humming stopped. "Yes," she said softly. "Called and said she got swamped at work."
Max nodded. "Alright. Tell her I bought soap, so she doesn't have to. Oh—and I got my report card. It's in my bag, on the drawer."
She raised an eyebrow. "And…?"
"Summer school grades again."
Her face fell a little. "Ah."
"It's alright," Max said, drying his hands. "I'll figure it out."
His grandma began her old speech, gently: "You know, Max, education isn't everything. You're more than—"
"—a letter on a paper, and my worth isn't tied to test scores," Max recited with a tired smile.
She laughed. "That's the spirit."
"Thanks, Grandma."
"You're welcome, sweetheart."
He stretched and yawned. "I'm going to shower and probably sleep. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Maxie."
He headed to his room, clean and quiet. The shower was brief—steam, rinse, towel, done.
Back in his room, he looked at his silent PC. After a long pause, he got up and booted it.
The screen glowed to life. He launched NVP, fingers crossed.
Loading...
Then the message: Servers down. Cannot connect.
The game shut down instantly.
Max groaned and slapped the keyboard—not too hard. He sighed, closed the screen, and threw himself into bed.
He picked up his phone. Thumb hovered. Doom scroll?
He hesitated... then clicked it off.
Silence. Darkness.
Sleep.