The house was too quiet.
Not the gentle kind of quiet — not the quiet of a nap or a lazy Sunday.
It was the kind of quiet that felt wrong.
The kettle wasn't whistling. The TV wasn't murmuring in the background.
Maria wasn't humming.
I walked down the hallway, my steps louder than they should've been.
"Mom?"
No answer.
I found her in the kitchen, sitting at the table, still in her nightclothes.
She wasn't cooking. She wasn't folding laundry. She wasn't doing anything at all.
Just sitting there.
Her hands trembled around a cup of tea she hadn't even sipped.
"You should still be asleep," I said, my voice too loud in the stillness.
She smiled like she was trying to reassure me. "I didn't want you to leave without saying good morning."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
School felt like a different planet.
Everyone else was laughing, running down hallways, talking about weekend plans.
I sat through class with my pen hovering above my notebook, not writing a single word.
Reya leaned across the desk at lunch.
"You're quieter than usual," she said softly.
I shrugged.
"Everything okay?"
I lied. "Yeah."
Her frown said she didn't believe me.
I came home early that day.
I don't even remember why. Maybe my last class got canceled. Maybe I just couldn't stand the noise at school anymore.
I walked through the door, calling out, "Mom?"
Nothing.
The house swallowed my voice.
I checked the kitchen — empty.
Then I saw her.
On the floor of the living room.
"Mom!"
The word ripped out of me like it didn't belong to my throat.
I dropped my bag, knees slamming the tile, hands shaking her shoulders.
Her eyes fluttered open halfway — unfocused, struggling — before closing again.
"Wake up," I whispered. "Please. Wake up."
Her chest rose shallowly, too slow.
I grabbed my phone — hands slipping, screen almost falling — and fumbled through numbers.
I don't even remember what I said to the dispatcher. Just fragments.
"My mom— she's not— she's not— please—"
The ride to the hospital blurred.
I half-carried her into the back of a tricycle — the driver shouting something I couldn't hear.
Maria's head rested against my chest, too still.
"Stay with me," I kept muttering, over and over, like if I said it enough she would.
Traffic lights blurred. Faces blurred. Everything blurred but her.
At the hospital, hands took her from me.
Nurses in pale uniforms lifted her onto a stretcher, voices sharp but steady.
"Blood pressure dropping— get her on oxygen—"
I stumbled after them, but a nurse stopped me at the door.
"You have to wait here."
"I can't— I can't just—"
"Sir, please. We'll call you if there's any change."
The doors closed.
I sat down on one of those cold plastic chairs, my breath coming too fast, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I stared at my phone until I saw a notification.
Reya: You didn't come to last period. Where are you?
I typed back with trembling thumbs:
Aki: Hospital. Mom collapsed.
Her reply came fast:
Reya: Which one?
I told her.
She didn't text back.
She just called.
"I'm coming," she said. "Don't move. I'm coming."
By the time she got there, I'd gone numb.
Reya rushed through the doors, hair messy, breathing hard.
"Aki."
I couldn't even look up at first. My voice felt like it was made of sand.
"She wasn't waking up," I whispered. "I tried— I didn't know what to do."
Reya sat next to me, close enough for her shoulder to touch mine, and placed her hand over my shaking one.
"You did the right thing," she said softly.
But it didn't feel like it.
An hour later, a doctor came out.
"Aki?"
I stood so fast the chair scraped. "Is she okay?"
The doctor didn't answer right away. His face was calm, but serious in a way that made my stomach drop.
"Your mother's heart condition has reached its final stage," he said gently. "The chronic heart failure we've been monitoring… her heart is too weak now. We've stabilized her for the moment, but she's critical. You should go in."
My throat closed. "She'll get better though, right?"
The doctor hesitated, then placed a hand on my shoulder. "We'll do everything we can."
That wasn't a yes.
But I clung to it anyway.
The room was too bright.
Machines hummed softly, a green line blinking across a screen.
Maria was there — small against the bed, skin pale against the white sheets.
Her eyes opened when I stepped closer.
"Aki," she whispered, and her voice was so faint it almost wasn't there.
I sat down, taking her hand.
"You're here," she said.
"I'm here," I whispered, forcing a smile.
Her hand trembled as she brushed a stray strand of hair from my forehead — the way she used to when I was little.
"You've grown so much," she said, her breath catching. "I'm proud of you."
Tears stung the back of my eyes. "Don't— don't talk like that. You're going to get better."
She smiled faintly.
I held her hand tighter, almost afraid to let go.
"I'll take care of you. I promised. I'll make you better."
Her eyes softened, glassy but warm.
"You already take care of me," she whispered.
Her voice cracked, the monitor beeped sharply — then steadied.
She gave my hand the smallest squeeze, lips parting like she wanted to say more, but her strength faded.
Her eyelids fluttered.
I panicked. "Rest, Mom. Just rest. You'll get better."
I stayed there until the nurse gently touched my shoulder and said, "We need to let her rest now."
I nodded numbly, kissed the back of her hand, and whispered, "I'll be right outside."
I forced myself to leave the room.
In the hallway, I grabbed the doctor's coat, voice cracking.
"You can save her, right? You have to save her."
"We're doing everything we can," he said again, steady but too calm.
It wasn't enough.
Hours passed.
I didn't move from that plastic chair. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe right.
Reya sat next to me the whole time.
"You should go home," I muttered. "It's late."
"I'm not leaving you here alone," she said.
"Reya—"
"No." Her voice was sharp, firm. "I'm staying."
Minutes blurred into hours.
The waiting room emptied, filled, emptied again.
I thought maybe the worst was over.
Then I heard it.
The sudden rush of footsteps.
A nurse's voice, sharp: "Code Blue! Room 214!"
My stomach dropped.
Room 214.
My mother's room.
I ran.
Down the hallway, past the chairs, past Reya calling my name.
Doctors and nurses burst into the room ahead of me — I shoved my way after them.
And then I saw her.
Maria.
Flat on the bed.
Her body jolting under the weight of CPR compressions.
"Mom!" My voice cracked, broke, shattered.
A nurse grabbed my arms. "Sir, you can't be in here—"
"Let me go! That's my mom!" I fought against her grip, kicking, shoving, screaming. "Save her! Please, SAVE HER!"
The room spun — flashes of the defibrillator pads, the sound of someone yelling "Clear!" — Maria's body jerking with every shock.
I tried to get past them again, and two more nurses caught me, held me back.
"I need to be with her! MOM! MOM!"
My voice tore out raw, almost unrecognizable.
Behind me, Reya's voice cracked too — she was crying, calling my name, trying to reach me.
But nothing reached me.
Not until the doctor stopped.
Not until the beeping on the monitor flatlined and stayed flat.
Not until someone whispered, too soft for me to bear: "Time of death: 11:42 p.m."
I didn't feel my legs anymore when they let me go.
I just sank to the floor in the hallway and cried — ugly, broken sobs that hurt my chest.
Reya knelt with me, arms tight around my shoulders.
"I'm sorry," she kept whispering, over and over. "I'm so sorry."
I buried my face into her shoulder and cried harder, clutching her like the ground was falling away.
A nurse came over quietly.
"We've contacted family," she said. "Emergency contact list—"
I blinked through tears. "Family?"
Before she could clarify, someone else walked through the hallway doors.
It was a face I hadn't seen in years.
The man who left.
My father.
He stopped when he saw me — and for a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then everything inside me turned to fire.
"You."
His eyes flickered with guilt, but he stepped closer anyway. "Aki—"
"Don't." My voice cracked. "Don't say my name."
He stopped, hands twitching like he didn't know what to do with them.
"I came as soon as I heard—"
I lunged at him, shoving him hard enough he stumbled.
"Don't you dare say that! You left!" My voice tore raw. "You left her! You left us!"
"Aki—"
"Because of you, she worked herself sick just to keep us alive! Because of you, she—" My throat closed. "You killed her! YOU KILLED HER!"
I hit his chest with both fists, crying so hard I couldn't see.
"How dare you show your face here now—"
Reya grabbed me from behind, arms around me, pulling me back.
"Aki—" she whispered, crying too.
I was still shaking, still screaming.
"You don't get to cry for her!" I spat at him. "You don't get to be here now!"
My father didn't defend himself. Didn't argue.
He just stood there, tears in his own eyes, but I didn't care.
I hated him.
I hated him for leaving.
I hated him for being too late.
Maria's parents came later.
They handled the paperwork. The words I couldn't say. The signatures I couldn't write.
They tried to get me to stay at their house that night.
"You need rest," they said softly.
I shook my head.
"No," I whispered. "I'm going home."
They tried again.
I refused.
Because our house — mine and Mom's — was the only place that still smelled like her.
Even if it hurt.
Especially because it hurt.
I went home hours later.
The same house.
The same kitchen.
The same couch.
But it wasn't the same.
I stood in the doorway, waiting for her voice.
Waiting for her to say, "Welcome home."
The house didn't answer.
Chapter 9 End