Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound shattered the silence like a stone thrown into still water.
Sharp. Hollow. Too loud against the tired old wood of the door.
Inside, dust motes floated lazily through a thin shaft of winter sunlight, slicing across the dim room.
The clock ticked on — steady, indifferent — like it was counting down to something nobody could stop.
No answer came.
The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.
Creak.
The door eased open with a low, aching groan — hinges complaining after years of carrying secrets.
Framed in the dull light stood a boy — no, a young man.
Jay.
Barefoot. Sleep-tousled.
Rubbing the last scraps of dreams from heavy, dark-rimmed eyes.
Twenty-one winters old.
Still soft in the way people are before the world finishes breaking them.
His hair was chaos — stubborn, spiky, like it had dreams of rebellion.
An oversized hoodie hung loose off his lean frame, sleeves shoved up, exposing forearms littered with faint, forgotten scars from a boyhood lived too rough.
When he spoke, his voice was thick with sleep and faint annoyance.
"Jeez..." he muttered, like waking up itself was a betrayal.
He blinked blearily at the figure at the threshold —
and his heart stuttered?
It was her.
His mother.
The woman who had patched his scraped knees.
Sung away his nightmares.
Taught him how to tie his shoes — and how to find magic in boring days.
Today though —
today, she looked like a war survivor?
Still beautiful — timeless, in a way that grief couldn't touch —
but there was a crack behind her eyes.
A weight around her mouth.
Not tired from sleepless nights, but from losing fights she was never meant to win?
"You're still not ready?" she asked, folding her arms across herself, like she was the only thing holding herself together.
Jay dragged a hand down his face, yawning.
"Sorry, Mom... didn't hear you knock."
A small, broken laugh escaped her lips.
Not happy.
Just grateful for a moment that still felt normal.
"We have a lot to do," she said, stepping closer.
She smelled like lavender and burnt coffee — a scent that meant home.
"The day's coming? Jay," she said softer now.
"You know that, don't you?"
The house seemed to flinch at those words.
The air went cold.
Jay's sleepy face hardened.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles blanched white.
"I know," he said — low, rough.
His mother opened her mouth to say something —
then thought better of it.
Her fingers twisted the hem of her sweater like a drowning woman clutches driftwood.
"I just..." she tried.
Her voice cracked.
"I just don't want to lose you too?"
Barely a whisper.
A prayer no god was listening to.
Jay's chest ached.
The kind of ache you can't breathe around.
He forced a broken smile, and reached for her.
His hand was warm, solid.
Hers was cold and shaking.
"I'm not going anywhere, Mom," he promised, even though promises were just lies wrapped in hope.
"I'll stay. Until the end."
For a moment, the world paused.
Somewhere deep inside the walls, a pipe creaked like a sigh.
Outside, the winter wind rattled the windows, whispering secrets meant only for the dying.
Jay yawned again, stretching.
"Five minutes," he said with a sheepish grin.
"Just five..."
She nodded too fast — and turned away before he could see the tears.
By 1:30 p.m., they left.
The house stood behind them —
their house —
peeling, battered, worn.
Like it was watching them go.
A house that had heard laughter, whispered dreams, slammed doors.
A house that knew this was goodbye.
Jay shuffled down the cracked stairs, hoodie half-zipped, breath ghosting in the air.
His mother hugged her tote bag close, looking small.
"You're turning into a real hermit," she teased lightly as they locked up.
Jay shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"Outside world's overrated."
She laughed — bright and clear for one fleeting second.
Sunlight through a storm.
Across the street, his father stood waiting.
Hands shoved into a worn coat, dark eyes unreadable.
Not coming.
Just watching.
He raised a hand — half wave, half goodbye.
Jay stared for a second longer than necessary.
Then lifted his hand in return.
Something twisted sharp and cold in his gut.
The ride to the market was slow and suffocating.
Cracked streets.
Honking cars.
Vendors yelling about roasted chestnuts and miracle cures.
Children dragging scarves like capes behind them.
Jay leaned his head against the window, watching the world blur by like a smudged watercolor.
His mother sat silent beside him.
Words would only break the fragile peace holding them together.
The thirty-minute trip stretched into an hour.
The market was alive — a chaotic, messy heartbeat.
Lanterns swinging wild overhead.
Smells of frying food, wet pavement, wood smoke.
Jay lugged the bags without complaining, barely noticing the weight.
Because the whole time —
he felt it.
The itch between his shoulder blades.
Like he was being watched.
He turned. Once. Twice. Again.
Always the same.
Nothing but strangers laughing, shouting, living.
Jay moved through it all like a ghost who hadn't realized he was dead yet.
By the time they finished, the sky was leaking colors —
orange bleeding into violet, the sun a dying ember.
Jay shifted the bags higher on his arms, scanning for an auto.
"Maybe we should grab a coffee or something—" he started to say.
He never finished.
The roar of an engine.
The screech of tires.
A scream ripped the air.
The moment Jay's feet hit the cold floor, he heard it.
A voice, quiet but unmistakable, echoed in the depths of his mind —
"Your mother is about to die."
The voice in his mind was unmistakably his own — but it wasn't his thought.
It echoed inside his head, cold and precise, a message he couldn't ignore. His heart pounded.
How was this happening?
Who was speaking?
Why was it his voice, but not his words?
Jay turned —
too slow.
A flash of white.
A car.
Too fast for a crowded market.
The driver — glassy-eyed, drunk — fought the wheel uselessly.
All of a sudden, car breaks get failed and all the doors get locked?
A small rock — no bigger than a fist — sat in the car's path.
(It hadn't been there before.)
The tires hit it, skidding.
The car twisted — veering straight at them.
Straight at her.
Time broke apart.
Jay's mother froze.
Jay's world shrank to a single point: her.
He dropped everything.
He ran.
Not thinking.
Not hesitating.
Love moves faster than fear.
He shoved her out of the way.
Felt her stumble, heard her gasp his name:
"JAY—!"
Then —
Impact.
Bone crunched.
Blood sprayed.
Glass shattered.
Jay's body hit the windshield.
Spiderweb cracks bloomed around him.
Then he flew —
then fell —
then hit the ground with a sickening, final thud.
The world tilted.
Cold seeped into him.
Blood pooled.
He tried to move.
Tried to breathe.
His head turned — every nerve screaming — and he saw her.
His mother.
Crawling toward him on bloody hands and knees.
His heart shuddered once, twice —
then started failing.
Jay smiled.
Broken. Bloody. Beautiful.
His hand twitched toward her.
"I still wanted to live," he thought.
"I still wanted to stay." "I don't want to die too"?
But the light went first.
And then —
nothing.
The market froze.
Even the wind forgot to blow.
Jay's mother reached him.
Fell to her knees.
She gathered his body into her arms, rocking back and forth like it could undo death if she just rocked hard enough.
"Jay... Jay, please..." she sobbed.
Her voice broke apart like glass.
Blood on her hands, sticky and cooling.
People gathered at the edges —
watching.
Whispering.
Nobody brave enough to step into the crater of her grief.
She screamed his name.
Again and again.
Until her voice shredded.
Until her heart did too.
Until the whole world broke with her.
She looked up then, eyes wide and frantic. Asking for help, but her voice never came out, only tears fell down.
Something was wrong? The air was thick with something heavy, a sense of foreboding she couldn't shake.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, her heart pounding as her mind tried to make sense of the overwhelming chaos.
People murmured, their faces blurred by the distortion of her grief. But then—then she saw it.
In the distance, a shadow.
A figure. Tall. Unmoving.
The figure stood under the dim light of a nearby streetlamp, watching? Watching her? Watching Jay?
The eyes were hidden in shadow, but the weight of their gaze was unmistakable. It felt too deliberate, too knowing, like someone who had been waiting for this moment.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Her breath caught.
The figure didn't move. Just stood there, cloaked in darkness, while the world around her fell apart.
Her hands clenched tighter around Jay's body. Was this a trick of the light?
Or was there more at play here than just an accident?
The shadow didn't disappear. It lingered in her vision, like a mark on the edge of her mind.
And then it was gone.
The sirens wailed.
Late.
Too late.
Flashing red and blue lights tore through the dusk, splashing sick colors across cracked concrete and terrified faces.
People backed away like the guilt might stain them.
Jay's mother didn't move.
Didn't even flinch when the paramedics rushed over, shouting things she couldn't hear.
Somewhere, someone touched her shoulder — trying to pull her away.
She lashed out — wild, animal — a scream ripping loose from her throat that wasn't even human anymore.
They backed off.
Let her grieve.
Let her shatter.
She clutched Jay tighter, burying her face into the crook of his broken neck, as if by sheer will she could anchor him here —
keep him from slipping away completely.
But you can't fight death.
It always wins.
Time blurred.
Voices became static.
Hands lifted her away, but she felt nothing.
Floated through it.
Someone zipped a bag closed with a sound that cracked the sky open.
A sound she would hear in her dreams until the end of her days.
Jay's body was lifted onto a stretcher, shielded from the world by a thin white sheet.
Just like that, he was gone.
She screamed his name,
Again and again.
Until her voice broke.
Until her heart broke.
Until the world broke with her.
And just watches her son dies right in front of her again…?
TO BE CONTINUED...