A calming yellowish light. It spread to every side of the room. I felt it, both of my palms holding a bowl. Hot steam blew in front of my face.
"Sinhart!"
Mother's voice calling felt quite far, but I was sure she was very close to me.
"Sinhart!"
The steam that blew suddenly felt hot. Both of my palms blistered. Instantly, I quickly released my grip from the hot bowl.
The distinct aroma of hot soup could be smelled.
The sound of a chair scraping backward. The table trembled slightly. Mother's hand held my hand. Her eyes examined my hand, with the worry she showed.
"Sinhart,"
I looked at her face. The same brownish-black hair. The same black eyes. The same red lips. Everything was the same, nothing was different. But, this felt wrong. The bags under mother's eyes were slightly different.
Our eyes met.
"There are no wounds right?" mother asked softly but it felt heavy.
For some reason, all that heat had disappeared quickly.
"There aren't,"
Mother's eyebrows furrowed, her eyes stared at me deeper than before. Her two fingers pinched my cheek.
"How could you daydream while holding a hot bowl!"
Mother released my cheek and began to return to her chair.
Daydreaming. Hot bowl. Dining table. It felt like I had just woken up from my sleep.
"Strange...,"
A small dining table with four chairs. There was only me and mother. Reflexively I turned to the right. A simple wooden wall that looked dark because the lantern light did not reach. My eyes stopped at an open window, with moonlight entering.
The trees stood and looked dark. From my house on this small hill. The night sky looked beautiful, the moon was slightly above. The same small lights were visible, from other houses not far from here.
"Sinhart...,"
My gaze returned inside the house. Mother looked at me, her eyes looking at my bowl of soup whose steam had already lowered.
My hand took the spoon in the middle of the table.
The sound of a wooden spoon touching the bowl. A mouth blowing gently. It was heard from mother's direction.
Slowly I followed, scooping the warm soup. Pieces of vegetables with the soup broth. My mouth blew gently, the steam drifted away.
My eyes blinked slowly.
The sound of a mouth blowing slowly faded. The sound of the spoon disappeared. The smell of the soup somehow vanished. The yellow light— slowly returned. My hand held an empty spoon in front of my mouth.
Empty?
My hand immediately moved, trying to scoop the soup again. It felt different, nothing changed from my spoon. My eyes glanced at my bowl on the table. There was nothing left. Even the soup broth had disappeared.
The sound of water came from my left. Spontaneously my head turned.
Even though it was not bright I could clearly see shelves that were full, a cupboard filled with eating utensils, then a stone table shaped like a basin with a water tap. Mother was seen standing there washing bowls and spoons.
"Sinhart finished?" mother asked without turning.
"F-finished,"
My feet went down from the chair, bringing the empty bowl with the spoon to mother. Mother accepted it and smiled at me.
"After this prepare for sleep okay,"
"Mother will follow after finishing washing," mother continued.
"S-sleep?"
It felt like the night had not been long and I was not sleepy.
"Sorry, forgive mother Sinhart."
Mother hugged my body in her embrace. Her hands that were still wet could be felt through my clothes. Mother's sobbing breath was heard in my ear. My shoulder was wet, mother was crying.
I closed my eyes tightly
This warm feeling in my chest, made me remember it.
Two days before the festival, a letter towards the evening that was sent to Kupika village. A letter addressed to Fyna Resd Sevilla. Mother read it, I remember how her tears soaked that letter.
I am sure that is the reason why father has not returned this week.
Since then mother immediately packed things as if preparing. Mother said that from now on I would be entrusted at my grandmother's house.
But how, how could I forget it. It felt like at that time, my body and mind changed. It felt like this was something normal. My eyes should have already felt it, just like mother
Why can't I feel it?
-When I Open My Eyes: My Journey Begins-