Wagashi and Algorithms: Reviving Grandma's Legacy with Viral Dreams - The Truce Agreement Between the Demon Granny and Matcha

Mizuki woke up with her smartphone still gripped in her hand. The memories of last night came flooding back. Grandma had been standing in the doorway of her room. Arms crossed, those pale violet eyes fixed on Mizuki. "What were you doing with that phone?" — that low voice still echoed in her ears. Mizuki hadn't been able to tell her the truth. She'd mumbled something about "just looking something up," waited for Grandma to leave, then burrowed under the covers. It had been two in the morning. But this morning — before apologizing, she had to show results. With that thought, she headed downstairs to the kitchen. Her smartphone was sitting on the counter. Her smartphone. The one she'd taken back to her room last night. For some reason, it was now sitting on the counter. And next to it — a small elderly woman in a white apron, arms crossed, was standing there. Tsukimi Ohana, eighty-five years old. Silver hair tied back with a thin hairpin, current proprietor of Tsukimi-an, and Mizuki's grandmother. Both hands, always gloved in white, were crossed at her chest. Those transparent, pale violet eyes looked directly at Mizuki. " Hand over that phone," Just one sentence. That was all. Mizuki's brain went into overdrive in an instant. — If she takes it, it's over. No posting, no replying to comments, forget about Kyoutabe. But there's no way she'll listen if I try to explain in this atmosphere. What do I do, what do I do— " W-wait! Let me explain!" The moment she stepped backward, Ohana moved. Fast. Not the movement of an eighty-five-year-old. She stepped in smoothly. Mizuki reflexively sidestepped and grabbed the lattice door. It opened. She bolted outside. " Don't you run!" The white apron came chasing after her. The Yanagi-koji shopping arcade in the early morning — three hundred fifty meters of covered arcade. A twenty-two-year-old granddaughter and an eighty-five-year-old grandmother were running at full speed. Light from the arcade's roof filtered in, thin and pale. Most of the shutters were still down. Saiki Masaru, the owner of the tofu shop "Marusa," was just returning from his morning deliveries. A stocky man in his sixties was walking with a box of tofu in his arms. Mizuki cut right in front of him. " Sorry, Marusa-san, coming through!!" "Whoa!?" The sound of footsteps. Moments later, a white apron came running from the same direction. Saiki froze. The box of tofu in his hands swayed. " Out of my way," She said it once and rushed past. Saiki stood there with his mouth hanging open, and the box of tofu slipped from his hands. A wet splat echoed through the shopping arcade. An old man arranging vegetables at the greengrocer's stall looked up and called out casually. "The Tsukimi place sure is lively this morning." " This isn't lively, this is a full-speed escape!!" She shouted as she ran. Fighting to keep her feet from tangling, she aimed for the arcade's exit — the door of "Kotono-ha," a retro Showa-era coffee shop. She burst inside. " Please hide me!!" "Uh, ah, yes...?" The young male clerk's eyes went wide. Ten seconds later — the door chimed open. Ohana was there. Not a single breath out of place. Her hair and hairpin hadn't come loose. She simply stood there, quiet. Mizuki grabbed the back of a chair, breathing hard, and looked at her grandmother. — How did she catch up? Ohana sat down on one of the counter stools. Mizuki, for some reason, sat down next to her. The two of them sat side by side at the counter, staring each other down. Every customer in the shop was looking at them. The young clerk approached nervously. "Um... what would you like to order...?" " Matcha. Strong," Immediate answer. Mizuki responded automatically. " ...Same," Silence stretched for a while. Kotono-ha was a Showa-era coffee shop. The counter was wooden, worn smooth by years of use. The menu on the wall listed coffee at 450 yen, spaghetti at 680 yen. About eighteen seats. Mizuki had heard from someone in the shopping arcade that the master, Nishina Takashi, used to be a newspaper reporter. He seemed to be in the kitchen today — his face wasn't visible. The aroma of coffee drifted through the air. Warm, completely different from the cold morning air outside. Ohana spoke first. " Don't do business with a young person's toy," That was all she said. Then she tapped the counter with one white-gloved finger. "Our habutae mochi isn't something to sell with shiny pictures like that," Mizuki bit her lip. The urge to argue rose to her throat. " But followers went over two thousand, and this morning five people were lined up before we opened. The numbers are there. Results are there," " Numbers can't measure taste," The comeback was quick. Just as Mizuki was about to add more — Ohana went silent. Not just silent. Her eyes looked off into the distance. Her white-gloved hand rested quietly on the counter. It was a moment later when Ohana began to speak. " For a while after the war, there was a time when sugar was impossible to get," Her voice was low, quiet. It was hard to believe this was the same person who'd been chasing her through the arcade like a comedy sketch. "Black market dealers came to us. Every day. 'We can get you sugar. Do business with us,' they'd say," Mizuki listened without speaking. "Seiichi's father — my husband's father — he kept refusing. 'Sweet potato paste is enough. I don't want to serve customers sweets made through someone else's dishonesty,' he'd say. Every day, he refused," Ohana paused. The matcha arrived, but neither of them reached for it right away. "He kept the shop going with sweet potato paste. That's what this place is," Mizuki thought it was amazing. Really amazing. In an era when sugar was impossible to get, there was someone who didn't take the easy way out. Because of that stubbornness, Tsukimi-an exists today. But at the same time — she also thought that same stubbornness was partly responsible for the current deficit. She was about to argue when she noticed something. Ohana's eyes were slightly wet. Just barely. So faintly you could almost miss it. But there was definitely something glistening in Ohana's pale violet eyes. Mizuki swallowed her words. — She doesn't want to deny it. That's what she thought, but couldn't say out loud. She couldn't quite find the words. She wants to fight together. To move forward while protecting one hundred ten years. But Mizuki still didn't know how to say that. Two cups of matcha were placed quietly on the counter. The deep green liquid steamed. Mizuki cupped the bowl in both hands. It was warm. An odd ceasefire stretched out as they drank matcha side by side. --- Early afternoon, when they returned to Tsukimi-an — there were people standing in front of the door. Three women in their twenties were comparing the store sign with a map on their phone screens. Mizuki immediately understood they were customers who'd seen the viral post. " Welcome! Please come in!" She opened the lattice door and ushered them inside. Ohana was already standing behind the counter. Her white-gloved hands rested on the counter as she watched the customers with quiet eyes. " Welcome," Short, emotionless. But she said it. Mizuki felt relieved. One of the women picked up a habutae mochi and took a bite. In that instant, her eyes went wide. "...This is insane." She murmured it, then took another bite. "This might be the most delicious thing I've ever eaten." The friend next to her reached out. "Let me try." She ate it the same way. "No way, what is this?" Her voice rose. The third woman said to Ohana, "What's this made from?" Ohana paused for a moment. The tip of her white-gloved finger tapped the counter. " ...The way the paste is kneaded is different," That was all she answered. A short response. But not "I won't tell you" — she said "it's different" — Mizuki caught that small distinction. Tsukimi-an's signature product, habutae mochi, used a secret paste called habutae-an. This paste was made through a unique kneading process called "three-fold return." Heat it, cool it, heat it again. Repeating that at a specific temperature range three times created a silken texture. Temperature control required precision to within 0.5 degrees, and Ohana could judge that temperature with just the sensation of her fingertips. Never written down, never shown to anyone — a secret kept for one hundred ten years as an oral tradition. The taste created by that secret was right in front of them, being called "the most delicious thing I've ever eaten." "I'm definitely coming back!" As they left, the woman waved with a smile. The door closed. Watching their backs, Ohana's profile entered Mizuki's field of vision. The corner of her mouth — was slightly relaxed. Not a complete smile. But definitely different from the iron expression she'd had before. Mizuki burned that moment into her heart. Grandma's heart moved a little. She saw it. She really saw it. She didn't put it into words. She just quietly looked away and began straightening the display case. --- It happened right after that. One of the three women, who should have left, opened the door again and poked her head back in. She wanted to buy more as a gift for a friend, and as she came in, she pulled out her phone. She aimed the camera — at the workshop entrance. In the dark depths, a well-used oak paddle was visible. A paste-kneading paddle. Carved by the second-generation Tsukimi Tatsunousuke, used for ninety years. The handle was worn into the shape of a hand, fitting no one but Ohana — the very history of Tsukimi-an's one hundred ten years. " Don't you dare shoot!!" A voice that made the display case glass tremble echoed through the shop. Everyone froze. The customers. Mizuki. Ohana's eyes were fixed on the workshop entrance. Her white-gloved fist was clenched, just barely. " I-I'm so sorry! The workshop is off-limits for photography—!" Mizuki scrambled to smooth things over, but Ohana was already heading into the workshop. The door closed with a soft pat, the sound echoing through the now-silent shop. The customer left, pale-faced and apologizing profusely. The door closed. Alone. Mizuki stood in front of the display case, looking at the closed workshop door. — I understand why Grandma's scary. But I think I finally understand what's underneath that fear. The story about refusing the black market. The one hundred ten years protected by sweet potato paste. What Ohana wants to protect isn't the "secret" itself — it's the weight of it. The feeling that it's not something to show to just anyone. But — how do we understand each other? The words wouldn't come. --- As she took down the noren curtain, Mizuki organized the day in her head. Eight customers. More than double before the post went viral. But only Ohana could make the habutae paste, and there was a limit to how much she could make in a day — she'd said sixty was the maximum. If customers kept coming like today, they'd run out quickly. SNS followers had increased by five hundred just today, now over twenty-six hundred. Yet the workshop door remained closed. As she folded cardboard boxes, Mizuki wavered for the first time. Was her approach right? Was she just widening the gap with Ohana? That's when her phone buzzed. A DM notification. From: Kyoutabe Operations. Mizuki opened the message. Kyoutabe — a local gourmet map app centered around the southern Kyoto area, used as a "food walk map" by locals and tourists. Monthly views listed at approximately 120,000 UV. The message was short. "We saw your post at Tsukimi-an. Would you be interested in free listing on Kyoutabe's southern Kyoto food walk map?" Mizuki's eyes lit up instantly. Not just SNS followers. If listed on Kyoutabe, she could reach people already walking around the southern Kyoto area. Not just tourists — people living near the shopping arcade could lea

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Episode 2

Name: Wagashi and Algorithms: Reviving Grandma's Legacy with Viral Dreams
Author: Novelia

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