I eased back against the machine, feeling the soft surface against my spine, breathing still uneven. The images in my mind hadn't scattered yet — the tiled floor, the familiar smell, the door at the end of the corridor with its thin pale glow. Every detail sharp in a way that didn't feel like something that had just happened.
"What time is it?" I asked, looking toward him.
"Just past two. You were only in there a few minutes."
Only a few minutes.
I looked down at my hands. The coolness from touching the wall inside was still in my fingertips — as if that sensation had arrived here before I did, and was already waiting.
"You came out fast," he said. "Did you see her?"
"No." I shook my head. "I wanted to test the exit first."
He nodded and didn't say more — just watched me quietly, waiting for me to decide what came next. I leaned back against the machine and looked up at the light above. White, even, steady. My mind was starting to clear.
"I'm going back in."
He didn't try to stop me.
I closed my eyes, breathed in slowly, let my body soften — like lowering myself into water, letting the weight take over. This time, the descent came faster. The path was familiar now, and familiarity made it smoother.
The first thing was wind. Light, moving against skin, the kind of shift you feel when you move from an enclosed space into something more open — immediate and physical, registered by the body first. Then warmth — a degree or two more than before. The particular warmth of a sunny afternoon, indoors. Not sharp. Enveloping. Then smell — and at that one thing, everything else stepped back.
I opened my eyes. The kitchen was right there.
My feet were already moving before I'd decided to move them.
Hm — Hmhm — Hm — Hm — Hmhm —
The melody grew clearer with every step, drifting out from the kitchen in soft waves — like something from a great distance that was actually very close, getting closer, closer, until there was nowhere closer left to be.
I pushed open the door and walked in.
She was there. Back to me, standing at the stove, bent slightly over something, the melody flowing out of her throat with that ease she'd always had — as if it didn't require any effort, just surfaced on its own, the way breathing does. That was how it had always been. She never hummed deliberately. It was simply part of how she existed in a room.
I stopped just inside. I didn't call out. I just stood there, looking at her back.
That back — I'd known it for years, known it well enough to draw from memory: the curve of her shoulders, where the ends of her hair fell, the slight forward lean she always had when she was working at the counter. Seeing it now, something rose behind my eyes — not grief, not happiness, something deeper and harder to name. The feeling of having told yourself you've accepted something, and then discovering, in one instant, that you haven't.
My body moved before my mind.
I crossed the kitchen and wrapped my arms around her from behind, both arms, pulling tight — tight enough to feel her starttle slightly, her shoulders stiffening for just a moment before her hands went still.
"What's going on?" She turned her head. "You scared me."
I lifted my face to look at her.
That face — no softness in the detail, nothing missing, nothing wrong. Her eyes, her expression, her voice. All exactly as I remembered. I stared, and my throat pulled tight, and my nose stung, and before I could do anything to stop it, tears had already come.
"Mum."
My voice came out broken — wet with the crying, not quite whole.
"I missed you so much."
She paused, brow faintly creasing, and then her hand came to my head and moved gently over it, light and unhurried, exactly the pressure that had always felt like hers — the kind that didn't need words, that had always simply meant: I'm here.
"What happened," she said softly. "Did something happen at school?"
I shook my head. Couldn't say anything. Just held on tighter, face pressed into her shoulder, taking in the warmth of her, the smell of her, the way being held by her felt like being enclosed by something the rest of the world couldn't reach. I knew this was the machine. I knew none of this was real. But my hands still held the fabric of her clothes as if holding on could make the moment stretch even one second longer.
She didn't ask again. She just started patting my back — slowly, steadily, her hand moving in small circles, saying nothing, only: I'm here. I've always been here.
I cried for a long time. Long enough for the tears to thin out, for the shaking to ease, for my breathing to find its own level again. Something in my body released — some tightness I'd been carrying without naming it, some thread that had been holding taut for longer than I could remember. Here, in her arms, it loosened. Just slightly. For the first time.
I pulled back a little, finally, and looked up at her.
"Mum, why do you always hum that song?"
She gave a small laugh, turned back to lower the flame, checked the pot. "Your grandmother used to hum it too," she said. "When I was little and upset, she'd just hum — didn't say anything, just walked around humming. And somehow, by the end of it, I'd feel better."
She thought for a moment, then added, "Grandmother said this song looks after children."
"Looks after?"
"When you're afraid, or sad — it makes things a little easier. Not so alone." She smiled quietly. "It's not magic, really. It just... seems to help."
She hummed a few notes softly then, low enough for only the space between us, just barely audible.
"Once you know it well enough," she said, "you can't forget it even if you try."
I said nothing more. I moved a little closer, feeling the warmth of her, the familiar smells and sounds of that kitchen.
"How's school lately?" she asked, stirring the pot, easy and conversational. "New place — are you settling in?"
"It's okay."
"Made any friends?"
"One. Ashly. She sits next to me."
"Sounds lively," she said, smiling. "What's she like?"
"She yawns a lot," I said, smiling too. "But she's good."
"Hope she's not bringing you down in class."
"Sometimes."
We both laughed. The conversation was light, unremarkable — the kind that, for a moment, made me forget entirely where I was. Not because I was deceived. But because this was the only version of ordinary that had ever felt right to me, and I'd let myself stay in it just a little longer.
She turned off the stove and set the pot aside. "Has your dad been working late again?" she asked, tidying the counter.
I stopped. "Not really."
"Hmm." She was placing things back, not looking up. "He's been coming home so late these days. And he keeps missing calls."
I looked at her without answering right away.
Something stirred at the back of my mind — quiet, but noticeable. I turned it over. Dad almost never worked late. And even when he did, there was one thing he never let slip: he always called her back. He'd said so himself — he would never leave her wondering. I remembered that clearly. Clearly enough that I didn't need to check it.
That detail was wrong.
The wrongness had barely formed before —
[Anomaly Detected]
The sound arrived inside my mind — sharp and internal, cutting through the kitchen as if it belonged to a different frequency entirely. She kept moving. Kept tidying. Her expression unchanged, her hands still going. As if she'd heard nothing.
[System Correction Initiated — Transitioning to New Environment in Ten Seconds]
I spun toward her. "Mum —"
The words didn't finish. The light was already draining from the room, the kitchen colours softening at the edges, her outline beginning to blur. I reached out — my hand found her hand, the touch was real, warm — and then that warmth began to leave my fingers, pulling away slowly, like sand running through, and I couldn't hold it.
The next second, everything broke.
Darkness pressed in at once, no sound, no warmth, no sensation. Only consciousness, sinking — down and down, toward somewhere deeper.