Helena's POV
The alarm clock insisted on ringing, but my eyes had already been open for hours. In fact, I doubt that at any moment in the past few days I had truly slept.
The pillow still held the shape of my face, and my eyes burned from forcing sleep. Sunlight, slipping through the faded blue curtains, drew golden stripes across the small, stifling room. The fan spun with a rhythmic creak, moving the hot air without refreshing anything.
In that discouraging atmosphere, I took a deep breath, trying to gather strength to face the day. Getting up was never an easy task, but staying in bed felt like a greater torture.
I turned off the alarm and sat on the edge of the bed. The floor was cold under my bare feet. The clock read 6:12. Outside, traffic was already coming alive - the muffled noise of buses and motorcycles invaded the apartment now that the alarm had fallen silent.
I stood up and peeked down the silent hallway. The apartment seemed asleep, but I knew she would be there.
She was in the living room.
Sitting in the worn armchair, wrapped in a robe that had long lost its original color, hands resting on her lap, eyes fixed on the blank TV. Still. Silence embodied.
I approached slowly, knelt by her side, and gently laid my hand on her bony knees.
"Good morning, Mom."
My voice came out low, as if it didn't really want to leave my lips. She turned her head slowly. Her gaze was vacant, almost translucent.
"Who... who are you?"
My chest tightened, but I held the smile - the one I had trained for months to look natural.
"It's me, Mom. Helena."
She studied me in confused calm. After a moment, her interest faded, and she turned back to stare at the turned-off television, retreating once more to a place I could not follow.
Knowing it was useless to insist, I left her in peace and went to the kitchen. Preparing breakfast had become an automatic ritual - I put the kettle on, arranged slices of bread, and warmed the milk with mechanical movements.
While waiting for the water to boil, I heard her shuffling steps in the hallway. She stopped by the window, as she always did, trembling hands resting on the sill while she stared at the street with that expression of perplexity that broke my heart.
I placed the slices of bread in the toaster, watching them darken. The milk warmed on the stove, forming a thin skin on the surface that I would have to remove later.
When I set the table, I arranged everything with excessive care - her favorite spot, her preferred cup, the toast slightly darker on the right side. Tiny details that filled my days with warm memories.
She came to the table guided by some residual instinct, sitting down with the ghostly elegance that had never completely abandoned her. Her fingers, once skillful, now played with the bread, crumbling it into little mountains on her plate.
"You need to eat, Mom," I said softly, pushing the teacup closer.
But the attempt was in vain. She looked at the drink as if it were a riddle, then at me as though I were a dangerous stranger. Finally, she wrinkled her nose and pushed the cup away.
"I don't like this..." she muttered, giving me a distrustful glance.
I nodded, already accustomed to that daily rejection. Then I stood, gathered the dishes, and washed them quickly, since I would soon have to leave for work. The running water carried away the remnants of our failed meal.
Before leaving, I found her again by the living room cabinet. Her trembling fingers caressed the frame of a faded photograph - two smiling faces in a distant park, hair dancing in the wind, eyes full of light.
I watched, standing in the doorway, as her hands treated that image with a reverence she no longer gave to anything else in this world.
"Who are they?" her voice sounded fragile, laced with a genuine curiosity that stole my breath.
The wound opened fresh, once again. I tasted blood in my mouth as I bit the inside of my cheek, holding back the wave of pain that threatened to spill over.
"It's us, Mom," I replied in a gentle voice, knowing that my words were already lost in the tangle of her mind before they could reach her.
Her gaze remained fixed on the photograph, a small furrow of confusion forming between her silver brows. She had already departed again for that inner landscape where I could not follow.
I went to work with my heart a little heavier than usual.
The bakery was only two blocks away, a route I walked from Monday to Saturday. I descended the steps of the old building, careful with the stairs worn down by time. On the street, I waited patiently - cars rarely respected the crosswalk, and I wasn't eager to meet my end in a traffic accident.
The path lay beneath the shade of yellow ipê trees, their withered petals forming a golden carpet over the gray sidewalk. There was a certain poetry in that fleeting beauty, but today I could barely notice it.
Work at the corner bakery was my financial lifeline - barely enough to cover the bills, but sufficient to keep us afloat. From nine to two, my world shrank to that space warmed by the smell of fresh bread. I organized shelves, packed loaves, served coffee, and half-listened to the corny jokes of the regulars.
But today was different. My hands worked on their own, while my mind lingered elsewhere, trapped in the moment my mother mistook our own photo. Perhaps my feelings showed on my face, because my boss called my attention.
"Everything alright, Helena?" Dona Marlene's gentle voice pulled me from the trance. The boss, with her faded blonde hair and kind eyes, watched me with concern.
"Just a little tired," I lied, forcing a smile that never reached my eyes.
She knew my story - Dona Marlene had been friends with my mother since their school days - and her look of pity was almost tangible. But she was kind enough not to press, limiting herself to a sympathetic nod before returning to the counter.
When the clock struck two, I collected my daily reward: a bag of day-old bread that would help complete our dinner. I thanked her with a weary nod and began the walk back.
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, turning the short trip into an exhausting journey. The only thing pushing me forward was the image of my mother waiting at home - even if she didn't know she was waiting for me.
I climbed the stairs with slow steps, sweat plastering my hair to my forehead. Still, when I opened the door, a chill ran down my spine - what if she had tried to leave? What if she had fallen?
But it was nothing more than another of the many ghosts my anxiety created. There she was, motionless in the armchair, exactly as I had left her. I sighed, half relieved, half bitter at the sight.
"Hi, Mom..." My voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the apartment.
Nothing. Only the faint buzz of the TV and the ticking of the wall clock. The absence of an answer hurt more sometimes than the lost, confused questions I usually received.
My chest tightened at the memory of the woman who had once been my mother - of the stories told at my bedside, the fair scoldings, the hugs that cured every pain. But now there remained only that blurred and frightened reflection, who sometimes called me by the wrong names and other times grew angry, shouting and accusing me of trying to steal her house.
Dragging myself into the kitchen with the weight of the world on my back, I prepared our monotonous lunch: reheated rice, a fried egg, and a few hastily chopped tomatoes. I set the plate before her, already knowing what would follow. I had to sit beside her, take the fork, and feed her patiently, spoonful by spoonful.
After lunch came the medicine. There were so many pills I no longer read the labels - I didn't need to, I had them memorized. Two white tablets, one blue, half a pink. I placed them all in a cup and handed it to her and, miraculously, she swallowed them obediently.
The afternoon unfolded in a sequence of tedious chores. Washing, folding, organizing. Between one task and another, I checked on her - always with my heart in my throat, fearing I might find her fallen or in danger.
At exactly five o'clock, I guided her to the bath. Her aged body seemed smaller and smaller beneath the warm water. I washed her gray hair with the same delicacy she had once used with me in childhood.
"Is the water okay, Mom?"
She only looked at me as she had that morning, blinking slowly before turning her head away.
I dried her carefully, dressed her in her nightgown, put thick socks on her feet to chase away the cold, and settled her into the armchair, covering her with her favorite blanket. On the TV in the living room, with no streaming apps, an old movie was playing - one she had loved in her youth. I sat by her side, stroking her fine hair as the sunset painted the sky orange and purple. By the time the first stars appeared, I was exhausted beyond measure, my body and soul pleading for respite in unison.
I rose stiffly from the armchair, stretching my arms to ease the tension that had built up. My mother rested serenely, hands folded on her lap like a sleeping child.
"I'll take a shower," I thought, knowing it would be a chance to leave her for a moment.
In the bathroom, I shed the uniform that still carried the aroma of bread and coffee, hanging it carefully to wear again the next day. The cold water from the shower brought immediate relief, washing away not only the day's fatigue but also the worries that clung to my shoulders.
I let the water run over my face for long minutes, the steam fogging the mirror as if erasing my weary reflection for a while. It was impossible not to question this life we led - this circular routine where each day was an echo of the one before.
My friends had long since moved on with their lives, my father had vanished without leaving a trace or saudade... But I couldn't, I didn't want to run. How could I forget all the sacrifices she had made for me? The sleepless nights, the doubled shifts, the unconditional love that never counted the cost?
Now, in the natural reversal of roles, it was my turn to repay all that devotion. Not out of obligation, but out of gratitude.
Sometimes, though, the exhaustion hit harder. Not from the caregiving itself, but from the uncertainty of not knowing until when, nor how, this story would end.
I drew a deep breath, pushing the dark thoughts away. I dried off quickly, determined not to sink into melancholy. It was just the two of us now, dancing this silent waltz - and I would lead the steps as long as she needed me. Until one of us could go no further.
Third-Person Objective
Meanwhile, in the dim kitchen, the old woman awoke.
Her eyes opened slowly, wandering over the unfamiliar room as if seeing everything for the first time. With trembling movements, she rose from the armchair and dragged her bare feet toward the stove, each step an evident effort.
Her wrinkled fingers trailed across the surface of the counter, touching dish towels and utensils with strangeness, until they found the small wooden box that held the matches.
"I need to make dinner..." she whispered to the empty walls, her voice carrying a maternal instinct her body still held, even when her mind no longer knew for whom.
With unsteady hands, she turned the gas knob. The audible click of the valve opening sounded like a sentence. She tried to strike the first match - the wood snapped. The second failed, her hands trembling too much.
Meanwhile, an almost imperceptible hiss began to fill the air, a sweet, dangerous odor spreading invisibly through the kitchen.
On the third match, a flame finally flared, small and yellow, dancing at her fingertips.
What followed was a dull thud, then a roar. Orange and blue flames burst violently, licking the voile curtain that instantly caught fire. The wooden cupboard beside it began to crackle, the flames spreading with terrifying speed, illuminating her face - now confused and frightened before the fire she herself had created.
Helena's POV
In the bedroom, I had just put on my pajamas when a strange smell invaded the air - sweet, disturbing, profoundly wrong. A shiver ran down my spine before my mind even understood the danger.
Then, the world exploded.
A deafening roar shook the apartment, followed by a disturbing silence that lasted less than a second before being replaced by the sinister crackle of flames.
"Mom!"
My cry echoed through the hallway already drenched in smoke. I ran toward the kitchen, each step a nightmare.
And there she was. Standing before the blazing stove like a statue, the box of matches still trapped in her thin fingers. Her face was serene, almost curious, as if watching some distant natural phenomenon - not the inferno consuming our kitchen.
I tried to get closer, but a wave of heat forced me back. Thick smoke scraped my throat, turning every breath into agony. My eyes stung and watered, blinded by the smoke swirling in grotesque spirals.
"Mom, please! Get out of there!" I shouted, my voice unrecognizably hoarse.
She didn't move. She only watched the flames now licking the ceiling, illuminating her face with orange and red tones that didn't belong to this world.
I advanced again, arching my body and covering my face with my arm. The scorching air burned my lungs with every short breath. I coughed - a dry, violent sound that brought to my mouth the bitter taste of soot and something darker.
My knees buckled. The world spun in slow motion, sounds becoming muffled and distant as if I were underwater. I stretched my hand toward her, fingers trembling, no longer knowing whether I was trying to save her or cling to her.
Through the curtain of smoke, our final image took shape - me on my knees, choking on air that refused to enter; her standing still, already half-consumed by the fire that seemed not to touch her.
Everything ended in darkness.
The next morning, a heavy atmosphere hung over the charred building. Neighbors gathered in small, whispering groups, their eyes a mix of morbidity and thinly veiled pity.
The firefighters shook their heads, calling it "a domestic tragedy" - just another fatal accident in the city's statistics. In the afternoon papers, a brief note in the bottom corner would speak of "negligence" and "a gas leak," reducing our lives to three rushed lines.
None of them would know about the sleepless nights, the medicines administered with patient hands, the hopes lost as the nights dragged on. They would never taste the bitterness of stale bread we shared, nor the sharp pain of being called "lady" by the one who taught me to say "mommy."
No one had witnessed the rare moments of lucidity when her eyes briefly recovered the woman she once was, nor the times she laughed at some random TV show - a rare, precious sound I kept like jewels.
We departed together that night in flames.
End of Prologue.