The metallic click of keys turning in the door echoed in the dim hallway as Dylan Haven stepped inside his apartment. The soft scent of chamomile and the faint ticking of an old wall clock welcomed him, unchanged from the morning when he'd left. He closed the door with deliberate quiet, slipping off his boots with muscle memory, every motion efficient, smooth.
His apartment was modest—clean, shadowed, and meticulously ordered. Sparse furniture. Neutral walls. Everything had its place.
And in the small room just off the main hall, lying curled beneath a faded quilt, was his mother.
"Ma?" he called softly, the gravel in his voice dropping even lower.
No answer.
He stepped through the hallway and into her room, where the blinds were only partially open, letting streaks of gold from the setting sun spill onto the floor. The TV was on, muted, playing one of the vintage dramas she loved. His mother, Evelyn Haven, lay in her usual position on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. She looked thinner than he remembered. Paler too.
"Hey," he said more gently, kneeling beside her.
Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing warm brown eyes still sharp despite the frailty of her body. "You're back," she whispered, a faint smile forming at the corners of her lips.
"Yeah," Dylan murmured. "I'm back."
He reached over to the bedside table, picked up the glass of water there, and held it to her lips. She sipped slowly, and he watched her swallow with careful attention.
"You didn't have to come early. I thought you said today might run late," Evelyn said, brushing a strand of gray hair from her forehead.
"I wanted to check on you," he replied simply, placing the glass back down.
She tried to sit up, and Dylan was at her side instantly, placing one strong arm around her back to help her rise. She winced as she moved, but didn't complain. She never did.
"I'm fine, you know," she said after a moment, her voice slightly stronger now. "You don't need to fuss over me every night."
"You look paler than yesterday," he said, ignoring her dismissal. "And you barely touched your breakfast this morning."
Evelyn smiled faintly. "You've always been too observant for your own good."
Dylan didn't smile. He just pulled the blanket tighter around her, his jaw tightening the way it always did when concern and helplessness mingled.
"Your doctor called," he said. "Said your next tests are overdue."
She didn't respond, turning her head slightly to the window instead. The silence between them stretched.
"Ma," he pressed. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Evelyn sighed. "Because you already do too much, Dylan. You work all day, drive that woman around—"
"She has a name," Dylan muttered.
Evelyn gave him a teasing look. "I know she does. You just never say it."
He looked away, his face darkening.
"She's just a job," he added flatly.
Evelyn didn't say anything for a moment, her eyes studying him the way only a mother could—seeing through all the armor and distance.
"I didn't want to burden you," she said softly. "That's all."
"You're not a burden," Dylan snapped, more harshly than intended.
She flinched slightly, and he immediately softened. "I just… I worry. That's all. I'll take you to the clinic first thing Monday morning."
Evelyn was quiet again, and then her eyes flicked to the light pouring in through the blinds.
"Can we go somewhere before that?"
Dylan's brow creased. "Where?"
Her voice was almost a whisper. "The park. Just for a little while. I miss the sun. The open space. The wind." She smiled wistfully. "I want to sit under the trees like we used to. Remember?"
Dylan remembered. Vividly.
He remembered those Saturdays when he was ten, maybe eleven, running across the patchy grass while his mother sat on the bench, sketching things—birds, people, sometimes even his messy hair when he wasn't looking. Before the sickness. Before her strength began to disappear little by little each year.
"Tomorrow's Sunday," she added softly. "The weather's meant to be nice."
Dylan hesitated, but then gave a slow nod. "Alright. We'll go. Early."
She smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening, and in that moment, she looked so much like the mother he remembered before all the hospital visits and test results.
"Thank you, Dylan."
He stood up, gently tucking the blanket around her again. "You should rest."
As he moved toward the kitchen, he heard her voice behind him—weak but still full of the quiet resolve she'd always had.
"You're a good man, you know. Cold… stubborn… impossible. But good."
He paused, a tightness in his chest he wouldn't name, and nodded once without looking back.
Later that evening, Dylan moved through the kitchen with a mechanical grace. He heated soup—chicken and rice, her favorite. The sound of the stove ticking on was familiar, grounding.
He placed the tray beside her bed and helped her eat, one spoon at a time. She didn't talk much, and neither did he. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was familiar.
After dinner, he sat in the worn leather chair in her room and picked up a small novel from the stack beside her bed. He read aloud, his deep voice rolling over the words with slow rhythm. She drifted in and out of sleep as he read, but he kept going, knowing she liked the sound of his voice.
At one point, she reached for his hand, her fingers paper-thin and cold.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered, eyes still closed.
He didn't answer.
Because if he had, the words might have cracked something inside him.
When he finally stepped into his own room, he closed the door and leaned against it for a long while.
He'd never admit it aloud, but every time he looked at his mother now, he was reminded of time—how little of it they had left, and how helpless he was to slow it down.
Dylan was a man who guarded himself with iron walls. But watching her grow weaker by the day, seeing the pale bloom of her illness spread across her face—it was the one thing he couldn't control. And that terrified him more than anything.
He sat on the edge of his bed, pulling off his shirt and tossing it aside, staring down at the floor, lost in thought.
Tomorrow, he'd take her to the park. He'd sit with her beneath the trees, even if only for a few hours. And maybe—for just a moment—he could pretend things were normal. That she wasn't sick. That time wasn't running out.
That the world, for once, didn't demand so much from them.