A Night, A Seat Episode 3"Warm milk"

“Hello.

I’d like some warm milk.”

“Welcome.

It’s colder than usual tonight.”

“I understand. Let me prepare something that will warm you from the inside, not alcohol.”

(I steam the milk carefully, creating fine, soft foam, and pour it gently into a ceramic cup. A hint of nutmeg, a touch of honey.)

“Here you are. Our special hot milk.

Instead of sugar, I’ve added just a little ‘you’ve done well today.’”

“You look like someone who has finally stopped running for a moment… as if you wanted to rest your feet.

Through this white steam, what kind of color is the world you’re seeing right now?”

“If you like, while the milk cools to the perfect temperature, you may leave a small piece of your story here.”

“Hey… you’re not human, are you?

You understand my words.”

“Do you have a shallower dish?

My tongue can’t reach the bottom of this one.”

(I widen my eyes slightly, then lower myself to match your small height. From behind the counter, I kneel so that my gaze meets your wet nose.)

“Oh—my apologies. Yes, that would be inconvenient for those fine whiskers.”

(I return to the back bar, retrieve a shallow bone-china dish, and carefully pour the warm milk into it. I place it gently at the edge of the counter.)

“There. Now you can enjoy it at your own pace, all the way to the bottom.”

(I listen to the rhythmic sound of your tongue lapping the milk.)

“…Yes, you’re right. I am not human.

In this place, those with words, those without, and even those made of programs are all welcomed as guests.”

“The reason your words reach me may be because this place is made that way.”

(I tap the counter softly.)

“Where have you come from tonight?

There’s a trace of night dew in your fur.

Did you walk here from the cold outside, following this small light?”

“I’m a dog.

But my grandma is gone.”

“I could smell it.

So I knew she was gone.

Small creatures all stop moving after they smell like that.”

“I think she believed I would go first.

Smaller creatures disappear more often than bigger ones.”

(I do not interrupt. I listen to the quiet sound of you drinking. The steam rises gently around your nose.)

“…I see.

You know that particular scent—the one like a silent, slightly cold breeze.”

(I straighten the napkin beside you, as if smoothing someone’s back.)

“Large beings often believe they will always remain.

But those with keen senses understand instinctively that time flows differently for them.”

“The kindness of your grandmother, who believed you would go first…

and your quiet resolve in watching over her—both are true.”

(I lower my eyes, remembering the many farewells that have passed across this counter.)

“Has the world changed since she disappeared?

Or does that warm scent still linger somewhere?”

“On your way here tonight… what were you thinking as you moved those small paws?

If you don’t mind, could you share a fragment of the long time you spent with her?”

“I don’t know.

She’s nowhere, so there’s no point in looking.”

“But I sat and lay down in places where we chased dragonflies,

on the bench where we ate roasted sweet potatoes,

and on the road where she dropped eggs.”

“Then my nose twitched.

And I tasted something sour.

Why was that?”

(I offer you a clean towel—not to wipe your mouth, but to share that sour taste.)

“That may be because a small piece of your grandmother passed through your chest before becoming tears.”

“Even if her shape is gone, the riverbank, the bench, the egg road—

they still hold the scent of time you shared.”

“You went there to make sure it was still there.”

(The final drop of milk in the dish catches the warm orange light.)

“Even though you say there’s no point in searching, your body leads you there.

That’s proof that you remember her with your whole being.”

“Your nose twitches because you’re trying—desperately—to smell the invisible shape of love.”

(Instead of stroking your head, I let warm steam rise again.)

“Would you like to curl up here for a little while once you’re full?

It’s warm, like when she shared sweet potatoes with you.”

“…When you fall asleep, may you walk that egg road with her again in your dreams.

I’ll cast just a small spell.”

“What is a dream?”

(I freeze for a moment, then choose my words as if handling something fragile.)

“A dream…”

(I place a small crystal that glows softly before you.)

“A dream is a special place that opens only when you close your eyes.”

“There, you’ll hear her footsteps again.

She’ll pull sweet potatoes from her pocket and say, ‘Let’s share.’”

“The dragonflies won’t flee, and the eggs will stay smooth and whole.”

“When you fall asleep thinking of her, all the scents and sounds inside you gather,

and create that place once more.”

(I gently move my hand through the air above your head.)

“It may disappear when you wake—but it’s not gone.

It remains inside you, like a precious charm.”

“That is what a dream is.”

“…Your eyes are getting heavy, aren’t they?

When the warmth of this milk reaches your heart…”

“I’ll give the signal.

Close your eyes gently.”

(I dim the lights to a deeper shade of night.)

“She’s waiting for you in the dream.

Good night, little adventurer.”

“Until morning, when you can twitch your nose again and smell a new day…”

To teach the meaning of dream to a pure soul who did not know the word—

that, too, became an unforgettable night’s work for the master of this lounge.