After numerous attempts to get through to the system, I went to wash my face without salty slurping. Cold water allowed me to cheer up, and therefore I went to breakfast with a clear head. In the kitchen, Mizuha was already waiting for me, dressed in a pink apron.

“Brother, everything is ready. Please, come to the table,” the sister said politely, taking off her apron.

“Good,” memories suggest what place in the family is assigned to Keiki, and I sit down on it.

I draw attention to the table, on which there were plates with a variety of dishes, most of which I see for the first time. Of the really familiar here, only sushi, which I was fond of in the past.

Closest to me is a bowl of... miso soup. There are just no spoons. Oh, yes, in this country only chopsticks are used. I look at the miso soup, then at the chopsticks, then back at the soup. No, in a past life I knew how to wield these cutlery, and even more so with the newly-minted muscle memory. However, the remnants of common sense