It was a warm summer evening. Ethan strolled along the Seine River in Paris, the gentle breeze playing with his hair and carrying the scents of freshly baked pastries from nearby cafés, mingled with the fragrance of blooming trees. The moon reflected on the dark, glassy surface of the river, while across the promenade, muffled laughter of tourists blended with the melody of a street musician playing the accordion. Ethan walked leisurely, watching the city lights that seemed to melt into the golden glow of the twilight sky. He cherished these walks. Paris, which once felt foreign and distant, had become his home, yet it still held onto an air of romantic mystery. Ethan valued these rare moments of solitude when thoughts of the past and future would come unbidden, mingling with the hum of the evening city. Ethan was a grown man now, with many victories and failures behind him. Life had taught him to be a realist, sometimes even a skeptic, giving him the air of someone distant from the world around him. Over time, his contact with his family had grown less frequent. He had moved to Paris long ago, chasing new horizons, but deep down, he sometimes longed for the warmth of his childhood in Marseille. His family still lived there—his mother, father, and, of course, his grandmother, who had always been his source of comfort and kindness. Ethan often tried to keep memories of the past at bay, but tonight, they washed over him with unexpected force. At some point, his steps slowed. He caught a faint, familiar scent of warm pastries wafting from a small nearby bakery. Ethan stopped in his tracks. The aroma was like a bridge to the past. It reminded him of his grandmother's pies—golden, with a crisp crust and a luscious filling. She used to say her pies were "the cure for all troubles." He remembered how, as a child, whenever he felt sad or upset, his grandmother would meet him in the kitchen with a plate of steaming pies. "Eat, and everything will be fine," she'd say with her warm smile. He recalled one particular day when he came home in tears after a fight with a neighborhood boy. His grandmother wiped his tear-streaked face with her apron before handing him a cherry-filled pie. In that moment, the world seemed bright and joyful again. Her pies were more than just food—they were her love, her care, her warmth. Lost in these memories, Ethan almost unconsciously turned toward the bakery from which the familiar aroma wafted. He purchased a small box of warm pastries and stepped back onto the street, pausing at the corner as he gazed at the glowing lights of nighttime Paris. He pulled out his phone, the screen displaying a list of contacts he rarely called. His finger hovered over one name before confidently pressing the call button. The phone rang for what felt like an eternity, and then he heard it—a voice, surprised yet so familiar and warm, just as it had been in his childhood. “Hi?” Ethan smiled, watching the calm flow of the Seine. “Hi, Granny…”