I sat there, simply watching her. She moved with a grace I hadn't seen in years, talking about mundane things as if time hadn't moved at all.
"Here you go," she said, sliding a small plate toward me.
"Just have a little for now. We can eat something much tastier after your check-up."
Check-up? What check-up?
A cold realization sparked in my mind. I stood abruptly and rushed to the bedroom, desperate to find a mirror. In the initial rush of seeing my mother so young and vibrant, I hadn't even thought to look at myself.
When I finally caught my reflection, the breath left my lungs.
"I knew it,"
I whispered, a bitter laugh bubbling up through the tears.
"Of course. This is exactly what I should have expected."
The girl in the glass was a ghost. My skin was deathly pale, stretched thin over a skeletal frame as if something inside me were slowly consuming my life force.
I'm nine years old again.
This was the year the illness took hold. The year the world turned grey. I stared at my hollowed cheeks, the tears carving tracks through the dust on my face.
"Oh God, out of everything... why this?"
I choked out.
"Is this the event you wanted me to witness? Did I do something so terrible in a past life to deserve this? Ame... is this why you ignored me?"
I stumbled back to the kitchen. I wanted to scream, to warn her, to tell her everything that was coming. But as I opened my mouth, my voice died in my throat. A heavy, invisible weight pressed down on me; I realized then that there were rules to this memory. Even if I tried to write a warning, my hand would likely refuse to move.
The only thing the universe would allow me to do was love her.
I threw my thin arms around her waist, burying my face in her apron.
"Mom," I sobbed.
"Mom."
She wrapped her arms around me, her hand gently stroking my hair.
Her touch was warm—so different from the coldness I felt in my own bones.
"It's okay, dear," she murmured soothingly.
"The doctor will find it this time. We'll find out what's wrong, and you'll get the proper treatment. I promise."
[so it's the first stage]
I held her tighter, the bitter irony stinging my chest. I was back at the very beginning.