"Damian!"
The call floated up from the kitchen—sweet and firm as a bell. "Get up, little star, or we'll be late!"
Silence.
Not even a creak.
She wiped her hands on her apron and marched to the stairs with a sigh. "Don't make me come up there," she called—half-threat, half-promise.
Up she went. Sunlight cast golden bars through the narrow hallway window. She pushed open his door.
There he was—still sprawled in bed, one arm flung over his eyes.
She paused at the doorway, hands on her hips. How many times now? How many mornings had started like this—with her coaxing, bribing, pushing through the weariness like a wall of wet cement? Some days it felt like she was trying too hard.
But It's just her. It's always been just her.
And yet, there he was. Her boy. So carefree.
"Damian."
He groaned, "Five more minutes."
She hummed, stepping closer. "Five more minutes? That's fine. I'll just give the warm honey buns to Mrs Hobbins down the street. She did say she hadn't tasted cinnamon that fresh in years—"
Damian shot up so fast he nearly fell out of bed.
"Nooo! Mama, no—don't give them to her!"
She grinned, already ruffling his curls. "Then up you get, my greedy little gremlin."
"Mamaaaa…"
She kissed his cheek as he squirmed away. One day, he wouldn't let her do that. The thought passed like a shadow—small, but sharp. "Five minutes. Wash up, get dressed. Food's on the table."
She said it like any other morning. But her chest was tight.
She had scraped together the last of the flour and stretched the butter with milk. She'd patched the same pair of trousers twice and still couldn't afford a new pair.
She hadn't slept properly in days, worrying about one thing or the other. It was exhausting.
She swept out, humming—soft and tuneless—the house just beginning to stir.
Downstairs, the kettle hissed gently. Plates clattered into rhythm. A steam car puffed by outside, reminding her of the time.
She plated eggs, toast, and those precious buns—warm enough to feel like magic.
It shouldn't be this hard. She wasn't asking for luxury—just enough to breathe. And yet, no matter how she stretched or scraped, it always felt like sand slipping through her hands.
Just as she set the last fork down, Damian skidded in, half-buttoned shirt flying.
"Made it!"
"Barely." She arched a brow.
He froze, hand inches from the plate.
"…Thank you, Mama," he added, grinning.
She handed him a napkin with a nod. "That's better."
His smile reminded her why she kept going. But sometimes, she wished someone would look at her that way—like she was someone's small, certain joy.
As he ate, she poured his tea into a chipped cup.
"You've packed your satchel?"
"Yup!"
"Homework?"
"Did it last night."
"Shoes polished?"
Damian peeked under the table. "…One of them is."
She began brushing crumbs off his shirt, fixing the collar. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Give me more buns?"
"In your dreams."
He chuckled through a mouthful.
By the time the hall clock struck, he was neat, curls as flattened as they'd ever be, a paper-wrapped lunch tucked in his satchel.
"Let's go, little star," she said, opening the door. The cool air rushed in.
Damian bounded after her.
And even on the hardest days, she'd still choose this. She'd still choose him.
The street was alive—boots clattering, steam hissing. A shopkeeper opened his awning, and the baker's boy whizzed by on a squeaky bike.
She held Damian's hand—not tightly, just naturally. Like their fingers had always fit that way.
But already, his grip wasn't as small as it used to be and one day, he'd stop reaching for her hand first. She tried not to think about that.
"Morning, Miss Elira!" called the old newspaper vendor.
"Morning, Mr Hemsley," she replied with a practiced smile, adjusting Damian's satchel with her free hand.
"News never sleeps," he said with a wink, waving a rolled paper. "Terrible mess in Parliament again."
"Isn't it always?"
They shared a laugh.
His tone was harmless enough, but she felt it anyway—that second glance, the kind that lingered just a fraction too long. Was it interest? Was it pity? She couldn't tell anymore. Some days, she didn't want to.
She kept walking.
A steam car passed. Its driver tipped his hat, and she returned the gesture with a nod, pulling Damian closer to the curb.
Children ran ahead, lunch pails swinging.
A boy called, "Hurry, Dames, or we'll get the back seats again!"
Damian grinned. "That's Will and Thomas. They always try to beat me."
"Do they win?"
"Only because I let them."
"Oh, of course," she said. "You're just being noble."
"Exactly." He puffed his chest.
She let herself laugh. Let him be confident. Let him be unbothered.
She wished she could remember the last time she felt that free.
They passed the tailor's shop where Madam Eloise stood in the window, adjusting the pins of her hat. She caught sight of them and gave a sharp nod.
"Good morning, Madam," Elira greeted.
"Lovely day," Eloise replied—sweet as sugar left out in the rain.
It was always the same—the tight smiles, the quick glances. Women like Madam Eloise didn't need to say anything out loud. Their eyes did it for them.
Too young to be widowed. Too proud to beg. Too pretty for her own good.
The thoughts weren't spoken, but Elira felt them all the same.
Further ahead, a pair of men on a delivery wagon slowed as they passed. One of them tipped his cap, not at all subtly. The other let his gaze trail lower than necessary.
She ignored it. Or tried to. Sometimes, she felt flattered—like maybe she hadn't vanished completely into motherhood and modest collars. Like someone still saw her.
But most days, it made her skin crawl. Like being unwrapped with a smile that wasn't meant to be kind.
She squeezed Damian's hand just a little tighter.
As they turned onto Rosehill Lane, the street narrowed. Flower boxes spilled over windowsills. A cat dozed on a railing. It should've felt peaceful. But even here, the quiet sometimes echoed with what she lacked.
She used to carry herself taller. Before the whispers. Before the hunger days. Before her waist thinned from skipping dinners she pretended she wasn't hungry for.
Now, some days she caught her reflection in a window and wondered when her eyes started looking so tired. When her mouth forgot how to look soft.
"Mama," Damian said, tugging her hand. "What if I forget my lines today?"
"You won't."
"But what if I do?"
"Then breathe," she said gently, "and remember—you love that poem more than anyone else."
Damian frowned. "Maybe not more than Miss Harper. She made us read it three times."
"Maybe. But you've practised so hard, you were muttering it in your sleep last night."
"I was?"
"You rhymed moon and balloon in your dreams. It was impressive."
"You'll still be there, right?"
She blinked. "Of course."
"Promise you'll watch me?"
Her voice softened. "I wouldn't miss it for anything, little star."
Not even if the school board whispered again about her priorities. Not even if her supervisor gave her that same look he always did—the one that said, "How much longer until she gives in?"
He giggled. "Then I'll do my best. Just for you, Mama."
"I know you will."
The school came into view—tall and grey, its clock tower always five minutes slow. Children poured in through the wrought-iron gates.
Damian hugged her waist. "Bye, Mama!"
"Mind your cuffs!" she called, smiling. "And no trading sandwiches!"
He vanished into the crowd.
And just like that, the morning belonged to her again. Her thoughts. Her shadows. Her too-quiet walk to her office. Some days, she wished she could vanish with him into that sea of noisy, ordinary joy.
Elira lingered. Then smoothed her hair and stepped onto the school grounds. The warmth of morning cracked like thin ice.
"Miss Elira."
She stopped.
Principal Wexley stood in the shade, posture stiff—too stiff. His hands twitched at his sides, like he didn't know what to do with them. His eyes swept over her—admiring, hesitant, as though he was trying to say something and couldn't find the words.
"You're a... you look lovely this morning," he said, his voice a little too soft, a little too rushed.
"Thank you, sir." She stepped forward, but he shifted awkwardly, blocking her path without meaning to. His breath hitched, and for a second, he just... stood there.
Finally, he cleared his throat, and the words tumbled out—gentle but halting.
"That little house of yours... it's... it's a beautiful thing, how you keep it running. I mean... it's admirable, Elira. Really. But I worry sometimes. This world isn't... it's not always kind. Especially for a woman like you. If ever you... if ever you need someone steady at your side... I'd like to be that. For you. For Damian."
He glanced down as if ashamed of his own boldness, hands clasping behind his back, then loosening again. He seemed to want to say more but faltered, the words catching in his throat.
"Life can be... unpredictable. A bit of bad luck, a turn of the wind, and... well... everything can change. Just like that."
Elira's gaze sharpened—quiet steel beneath her polite mask.
"I manage well enough." The words came quiet but firm, a stone lodged in her throat.
Wexley nodded quickly, flustered. "I know. Of course you do. You're... you're stronger than most. I only meant..." He swallowed, lowering his voice, almost pleading. "Just... for Damian's sake, maybe it wouldn't hurt to have someone in your corner. Someone who cares."
Elira met his gaze, and something fragile flickered in her eyes—but only for a moment. She drew herself straighter.
"I've never asked for charity, Mr. Wexley."
"No, of course not," he rushed to say. "It's not charity. I didn't mean it like that. Just... think of me, Elira. If... if the time ever comes."
Her nod was polite—distant. And then she was gone, walking on, jaw tight, shoulders squared.
Wexley let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, hands trembling slightly as he rubbed them together.
Elira hated how her skin still flushed under his gaze. How part of her—on lonelier nights—pictured what it might be like to let herself want something. To want him. His arms around her. His voice low and warm, saying the sort of things no one said to her anymore.
But in those same imaginings, his affection felt slippery, insincere. She could never quite picture him bending to pick up Damian's school shoes or staying up through a fevered night. He wouldn't choose them—he'd want to be chosen.
And she had made her choice long ago. Damian came first. Always.
When she turned the corner, out of sight, her hand briefly touched her chest—fingers pressing where the ache had returned. She took a breath that didn't quite settle. Then she straightened her shoulders and kept walking.
In the staff room, silence fell the moment she entered. Three women occupied the space—Miss Canning, Mrs. Drover, and the always-sour Miss Talbot.
"Morning," Elira said, moving to pour herself tea.
Miss Canning didn't look up from her knitting. "It's sweet, really—how the headmaster takes such a personal interest in your well-being."
Mrs. Drover sipped her tea. "He does have such a generous heart. Especially for… single mothers."
Miss Talbot added with a smile too thin to trust, "It must be so hard, juggling everything. And without a husband to help… you manage so well."
Elira stirred her tea slowly, the spoon clinking against porcelain.
She imagined smashing the cup against theor heads. Shards flying. The look of stunned silence on their painted faces. Oh, how she'd enjoy it so much.
Instead, she said calmly, "If you're truly concerned, I'd suggest speaking to the board. Otherwise, I'd hate to think this was just idle cruelty."
Miss Canning raised her brows, lips still curved. "Oh, don't take offence, dear. We're just admiring how resourceful you are. Some of us had to work twice as hard to get here."
Elira turned, voice velvet and steel. "And it shows—in your work, if not your manners."
The silence that followed was thick and bitter.
She took her tea and sat by the window. Outside, Clara from Year Two waved.
Elira smiled and waved back.
Her hand trembled just slightly as she lifted the cup. She steadied it against the saucer, willing herself calm.
Sometimes, that was the only affection she got all day. That wave. That unfiltered smile. It had to be enough.
Because when you were alone in this world, being seen without being judged was the rarest kindness of all.
The bell rang.
She rose, straightened her blouse, and left. Laughter started again behind her.
Elira's classroom smelled of chalk and old paper. Golden light slanted through the tall windows, softening the world into something that almost felt kind.
"Good morning, Miss Elira!"
A dozen voices rang out as she stepped into the room. Her face lit up.
"Good morning, class."
She held a worn leather-bound Romeo and Juliet.
"'Young men's love then lies / Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.' What does Friar Lawrence mean?"
Hands shot up.
"Lucy?"
"That people can be quite silly."
"Close. Anyone else?"
A boy raised his hand.
"That people do silly things when they're in love."
"Perfect. Do we think Shakespeare's mocking them, or does he understand them?"
Henry, quiet and small, lifted his hand. She gave him a soft nod.
"Maybe… both? Like, he's laughing but also saying it's okay to be silly."
Her heart swelled. "Yes, Henry. Exactly that."
Oh, to be young. To feel everything all at once and think it meant forever. To fall in love before the world taught you all the ways it could hurt.
Once, she'd felt that way too. Or had wanted to. Before her heart learned to be cautious first, before being hopeful.
"Act One, Scene Five. Who remembers what happens here?"
"Romeo sees Juliet and falls in love."
"Who was he in love with ten minutes before that?"
"Rosaline."
"Isn't it funny?" Elira smiled. "How easily his heart switches sides? One moment he's weeping for Rosaline, and the next he's waxing poetic about Juliet's eyes. A bit dramatic, don't you think?"
A ripple of giggles passed through the room.
She moved around the desks as she spoke, her fingertips brushing wood. "But maybe Shakespeare is telling us something about youth. About how quickly feelings rise and fall. How confusing it is to grow up."
A boy muttered, "Sounds like my cousin."
That laughter bubbled louder.
She raised her hand. "All right. Romeo's heart may be fickle, but yours don't have to be. Let's read. Edgar, you're Romeo. Juliana, Juliet."
Edgar groaned. "Do I have to?"
"Be Romeo, or write two pages on his emotional instability."
Edgar straightened. "I'll be Romeo."
More laughter.
She took a sip of her tea. Bitter again.
She'd burnt it this morning—again.
That's the thing about juggling too much—something always burns.
As the students stood to act, she leaned slightly against her desk, arms folded.
The ache beneath her ribs stirred again—tight, pressing. Unrelenting.
Probably just the cold, she kept telling herself.
But lately, it had taken longer to catch her breath. Some mornings, it woke her before dawn.
Still… what if it wasn't? What if something happened to me, and Damian was left alone?
Her chest clenched.
No. Not now. Not today.
She didn't have the luxury of falling apart—not when her son needed her whole. Even if she was just holding herself together with willpower and tea leaves.
"Quiet feet, quiet mouths. Unless you're reciting Shakespeare—in which case, use your lungs, not your nose."
One of the girls snorted. Elira grinned. Not proper, perhaps—but she'd take laughter over perfect posture any day.
"Miss Elira?"
"Yes, Martha?"
The girl hesitated. "You look tired today."
Elira blinked, caught off guard. Then smiled softly. "Do I?"
Martha nodded. "But you're still the prettiest teacher."
Her throat tightened.
She squeezed Martha's shoulder. "Flattery will get you a shorter homework assignment."
Laughter again.
Edgar tripped over Juliet's lines. Elira watched, amused.
They'll remember this scene more than half my lectures. And maybe that's enough. Maybe it's what they need most—a chance to laugh, to play, to pretend at love before it costs anything.
In the hallway, she caught a flicker of movement—Wexley again. Watching. His gaze lingered, unmistakable. Not curious. Not casual. Measured. Possessive.
She clenched her jaw, but didn't let her smile falter. Not here. Not with so many young eyes watching her.
"'With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls,'" she said gently.
Edgar looked up, red-faced. "With love's… wings?"
"Close enough. Fly on, Romeo."
The class burst into applause.
Elira smiled—not the tight one she wore in the corridors, but the real kind. Crooked. Warm.
Whatever else the day brought, she still had this. And—for now—that was enough.
The bell rang, sharp and sudden, cutting through the hum of voices. Desks scraped back as students rushed to gather books and satchels.
Elira's voice rose above the clatter, gentle but firm. "Walk, don't run! Don't forget—hall in ten minutes. Line up with your class and keep your props off the floor."
She followed at a slower pace, stacking papers and setting the worn copy of Romeo and Juliet on her desk. Then she reached for her handkerchief and dabbed delicately at her mouth.
A dry cough bloomed in her chest—small, but persistent.
She pressed a hand to her ribs. Not now.
The auditorium buzzed with excitement. Rows of wooden chairs filled with parents, teachers, and squirming students.
Damian tugged at his sleeves nervously, shifting from foot to foot near the edge of the stage, dressed neatly, hair half-behaved. Teachers moved around him, straightening costumes and shushing chatter.
Elira slipped in quietly, heart already lifting when she spotted him.
"Damian!" she whispered.
His head whipped around. His face lit up instantly.
"Mama!" he cried, darting off the stage. He flung his arms around her waist. She laughed, breath hitching, and ruffled his hair.
"You made it!"
"I said I would," she murmured, holding him close. The pressure in her chest flared—but she held on a little longer. Just a few more seconds. "Now, get back up there, little star."
A few of the older boys from Class Five elbowed each other and snickered.
"Still hugging your mum, Dames?"
"She gonna kiss your boo-boos too?"
Damian stuck out his tongue. "You're just jealous."
Elira chuckled, though a rasp snuck into the sound. Damian didn't notice—yet.
He was looking at her face.
That's when he saw it.
That shimmer.
It had always been there—this quiet golden glow she carried. Like sunlight behind skin. Like warmth you could see if you looked the right way. He used to think maybe all mothers had it. Maybe grown-ups just stopped talking about it when they got older.
But now…
It looked different.
Fainter. Like it was hiding. No, not hiding. Fading.
He frowned. A strange chill climbed his arms.
He didn't know why, but suddenly, he wanted to hold her hand.
"Damian, love?" Elira touched his cheek. "You all right?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Just… nervous."
"Don't be." She smoothed his collar. "I'm right here."
He looked again. The shimmer was still there—but the edges had frayed. Pale grey curled into the gold, soft like ash in wind.
The headmaster called for quiet.
Elira gave Damian a wink and nudged him toward the stage. "Go. Be brilliant."
The lights dimmed. Curtains creaked open.
Children stepped forward, full of wide gestures and wobbly confidence. Parents clapped. Teachers smiled too tightly.
Elira leaned forward in her chair, hands folded, hiding another cough in her sleeve.
Damian's class was third in line. He kept stealing glances at her, his eyes tracing the way she sat, the way her shoulders looked heavier somehow. When their eyes met, she smiled and waved.
He grinned back—but the shimmer…
It was dimmer still.
Why is it so dull? he thought.
His mama's light had always been blinding just like the sun. She always made it easy to wake up in the mornings. But now that sun wasn't shining as bright as it usually did.
More acts passed. Elira's breaths came shallower. She masked it well, slipping her handkerchief discreetly to her mouth, blinking through the ache in her chest.
Not now. Hold on. For him.
If I break, if they see—he'll see. He'll be afraid. I can't let him be afraid.
And then—Damian's turn.
He stepped under the spotlight. Small. Brave.
His poem was short. Simple. But he had practised every word.
The hall hushed.
He looked for her.
There she was. Smiling, nodding.
Still here, he told himself. Still shining.
He took a breath.
"I wandered lonely as a cloud…"
His voice rang out, clear.
But then—
She coughed.
It wasn't like before.
It cracked from her chest like something tearing.
She turned away sharply, handkerchief pressed tight to her mouth.
Damian faltered.
The next line slipped.
Her lungs burned.
She coughed again—harder.
A flash of copper on her tongue.
She blinked. Her hand shook.
No, no, no—not now—
The pain coiled, sharp and sudden. Her ribs screamed.
The lights blurred. Sound fell away.
Then—
Red.
A blot bloomed on white fabric.
Her chair scraped. Her legs gave way.
She fell.
A thud. A silence.
Then shouts.
Gasps.
Elira lay on the ground, lips parted. Her breath came in short, broken threads.
No. Not yet. Please—not yet.
He's still so little. I was going to wait. I was going to tell someone. Just not yet. I didn't want him to worry. I didn't want to make it real.
The golden shimmer inside her flickered—then sputtered.
The grey reached deeper now, threading through her, unspooling everything she'd held together for so long.
Damian's voice broke through the chaos.
"MAMA!"
He ran. The poem forgotten. His shoes echoing loud against the floor.
She saw him—blurry, haloed by the stage lights.
And her heart shattered all over again.
I'm sorry.
Damian vaulted off the stage before anyone could stop him. His feet hit the floor with a thud, shoes slipping on polished boards. He ran–ran like the world had narrowed to the spot where his mother had crumpled.
But someone caught him halfway.
"Damian—Damian, wait—!" Mr Tolliver, the history teacher, knelt and wrapped strong arms around him, pulling him back. "You can't—let them work—"
"No! Let me go!" Damian kicked and thrashed, his face streaked with tears he hadn't even realised were there. "That's my mama! She needs me!"
"She'll be okay. The doctor's coming; just—just breathe, son. Breathe."
But she wasn't moving.
Teachers rushed to her side. One of them—Miss Alden, the school nurse—was already on her knees beside Elira, pressing two fingers to her throat. Her face was pale. Too pale.
"Pulse is weak," she murmured. "She's breathing, but barely. We need help—now."
"I already sent a runner!" another teacher called. "He's gone to the clinic down the road—should only be minutes."
Damian scrambled forward, dropped to his knees, and grabbed her hand.
It was cold.
"Mama?" His voice was smaller now. Trembling. "Mama, wake up. You said you'd be here. You said…"
Her eyelids didn't flutter. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps. Her handkerchief lay limp beside her. Blood bloomed across it like a dying flower. Damian stared at it.
He couldn't look away.
And then he saw it again—that faint, flickering shimmer inside her.
The grey was more prominent now. It remained clung to her like ash clinging to light. It curled in deeper.
He didn't know what it meant—only that it felt wrong.
He clutched her hand tighter.
"Come on, come on…" someone muttered before him. The school nurse. Maybe. He wasn't paying attention.
Behind them, someone was herding the younger students back. Children were crying. Some looked stunned, too confused to speak. One teacher stood between Damian and the others, shielding him from the crowd.
And then—a shrill whistle outside. Wheels. Boots on the stone.
The medics burst in, two of them, with a stretcher between them and a bag of supplies already open. They didn't ask questions. They knelt, checked her vitals, and moved with calm urgency.
A third medic crouched next to Damian.
"Hey, kiddo. What's your name?"
"Damian."
"That your mum?"
He nodded. Couldn't speak.
"You did good, Damian. We're going to help her now."
He didn't let go of her hand until someone gently pried it from his fingers.
He didn't cry again until they lifted her onto the stretcher, and he saw how small she looked lying there. Smaller than she'd ever been. As if the cough had stolen more than her breath.
His throat ached, but the sobs stayed trapped beneath his ribs.
The medic who'd spoken to him took his hand. "Do you want to ride with us?"
He nodded.
They moved quickly. Through the double doors, across the gravel lot, into the ambulance. The world outside blurred into greys and blues as the siren started to wail.
Damian sat beside her on the narrow bench, knees drawn to his chest. He watched her chest rise. Fall. Rise.
The gold shimmer had dwindled to a whisper—soft, like a firefly fading with morning light.
He stared at it, trying not to blink, as if watching it closely could stop it from slipping further.
And then—
The hospital.
Bright lights. Shouts. The scent of antiseptic and something metallic. People in uniforms swarmed them. The doors clanged open. The stretcher disappeared behind a door before he could follow.
He was left in the hallway, clutching his coat sleeves, the sound of his heartbeat louder than the footsteps around him.
That's when he noticed.
At first, he thought it was just Mama.
But now…
It was other people too.
A nurse passing by, a man limping down the hall, a woman sitting nearby with her arms wrapped around her stomach.
They each had a faint glow inside—some blue, some green—but the grey was there too, curling at the edges. And in some, it was thicker. Heavier. Like it was seeping deeper than it should.
His stomach twisted.
Had it always been like this?
Why hadn't he seen it before?
Why could he see it now?
No one else seemed to notice. They just walked past like everything was normal.
He shrank against the wall, watching them go.
Was he the only one who could see it?
Was something happening?
He looked toward the curtain they'd taken Mama behind.
The grey was around her.
He was sure of it.
And even though he didn't know what it meant—
He didn't want it to grow.