Sunday dawned calmer than the days before, as if the village itself had decided to breathe more carefully. There was no constant sound of hurried footsteps or overlapping voices in the streets. The air was clean and fresh, and sunlight streamed through the windows with an almost respectful softness.
Mikoto had been awake for some time.
Seated at the low kitchen table, she held a cup of tea in both hands but didn't drink. Her eyes were fixed on an indistinct spot in the wood before her, as if she were watching something that wasn't really there. Steam rose slowly, fading into the air, while her thoughts followed the same path — silent, continuous, difficult to contain.
She heard the footsteps before she saw him.
Ren crossed the hallway carefully, his movements restrained, as if he didn't want to break the tranquility of that early morning. When he entered the kitchen, he found his mother seated there, her hair tied back simply, her expression serene… and tired.
"Good morning, Mom," he said softly.
Mikoto lifted her gaze slowly, as if she needed a moment to return fully to the present. When her eyes met his, a gentle smile formed on her lips.
"Good morning, Ren."
She gestured toward the chair in front of her.
"Sit down. The tea is still hot."
Ren obeyed, pulling out the chair and sitting across from her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable — on the contrary, it felt far too familiar. It was the kind of silence built over years, filled with unspoken things, yet deeply understood.
Mikoto finally brought the cup to her lips and took a small sip before speaking again.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes," Ren replied. "And you?"
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, something so subtle that anyone else might not have noticed.
"I slept… I did," she said. "But I woke up early."
Ren nodded, watching her closely. He was used to reading people, noticing small changes in tone, gestures, and expressions. And there was something different there. It wasn't open sadness, nor explicit fear. It was something more delicate. Deeper.
Mikoto set the cup down on the table and intertwined her fingers.
"There's no training today, no obligations," she said. "I thought that… maybe we could spend some time together."
Ren blinked, surprised.
"Of course," he replied almost immediately. "I'd like that."
Her smile widened slightly, but her eyes held a strange glimmer — as if that simple yes carried more weight than it should have.
After the simple breakfast, Mikoto suggested they go out to the backyard. The sun had risen a little higher, bathing the space in warm light. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, casting uneven shadows across the ground.
She walked slowly, her hands clasped in front of her, while Ren followed at her side.
"You grew up very fast," she said suddenly.
Ren tilted his head slightly.
"Everyone grows up."
"Not everyone in the same way," Mikoto replied. "And not everyone… on the inside."
She stopped near the oldest tree in the yard, running her fingers over the rough bark. Her movements were careful, almost affectionate.
"When you were little, you used to hide here," she said, a faint nostalgic smile appearing on her lips. "You thought no one could see you."
Ren vaguely remembered. A distant feeling, but real.
"I felt safe," he said. "Even knowing it didn't make much sense."
"It makes perfect sense," she replied softly. "Sometimes, safety doesn't come from being invisible… but from feeling like you belong somewhere."
She turned to face him, studying his features as if trying to memorize every detail.
"You've been carrying much more than you should," she continued. "I can see it."
Ren didn't answer right away.
"I can handle it," he said at last.
Mikoto nodded slowly, but she didn't look convinced.
"I know you can," she said. "I always have. But that doesn't mean you should."
She took a few steps, sitting down on the wooden bench near the tree, and gestured for Ren to sit beside her. He did.
For a few moments, Mikoto simply watched the sky through the leaves.
"There are things a mother feels," she began. "Even when no one says anything. Even when everyone pretends that everything is fine."
Ren remained silent.
"And there are moments," she continued, her voice low, "when we feel that time itself is… changing. As if something is about to break, even though no one can say exactly what."
She took a deep breath.
"Do you feel that too?"
Ren hesitated.
"I do," he admitted. "But I don't know how to explain it."
"You don't need to," Mikoto replied quickly. "Some things don't need to be explained."
She turned her face toward him again, her gaze filled with a care that was almost painful.
"Ren… no matter what happens, remember one thing."
He looked at her.
"You are not alone."
The words were simple. Direct. But they carried immense weight, as if they hid a plea, a warning, and a farewell all at once.
Ren swallowed hard.
"I know," he said. "I've never forgotten."
Mikoto smiled, but her eyes grew slightly moist. She looked away before he could notice too much.
"Promise me something," she asked.
"What?"
"Promise me that, even when everything feels confusing… you won't harden your heart."
Ren frowned slightly.
"Why?"
She closed her eyes for a brief moment before answering.
"Because the world already has too many cold people," she said. "And I don't want it to take that from you."
Silence settled between them once more, but now it was heavier, filled with meaning. The wind blew a little stronger, rustling the leaves above them.
After a while, Mikoto stood up.
"Let's go inside," she said. "I'll prepare something for lunch."
Ren followed her in silence, but before crossing the doorway, she stopped and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"No matter what comes," she said softly, almost in a whisper, "you will always be my son."
Ren looked at her, feeling a strange tightness in his chest.
"I know, Mom."
She smiled one last time before going inside.
Ren remained there for a few seconds, gazing at the quiet backyard, feeling that that Sunday — simple, peaceful, almost ordinary — was somehow far too precious.
As if it were one of the last moments when everything still felt whole.
(Early access chapters: see the bio.)