That night, after everything that had happened, Koran returned to his room.
He sat alone, staring at the ceiling with half-closed eyes,
thinking:
> "Sometimes… it all feels like it's conspiring just to stay the same."
"Same streets… same faces… the wheels keep spinning.
Same news… even sadness has become a routine."
He threw his head back onto the pillow and sighed deeply,
as if he wanted to drive out everything spinning in his mind.
> "Just one simple day… I'm tired of it.
I want to forget."
Then came a long silence, a whisper as if he was promising himself:
> "Tomorrow… I'll laugh with her, even if everything collapses after."
He closed his eyes slowly,
leaving the night to swallow him.
—
The next night, however, was not special.
Nothing remained except the scent of the cake.
The place was slowly filled like a warm breath sneaking between the walls,
canceling its usual cold silence.
Koran sat in front of the small wooden table, carefully opening the box—
the cake he had hidden all the way,
opening it as if it were a buried treasure.
He slowly lifted the lid; a light sweet scent escaped like sugar itself,
melting into the air.
> "Here it is—the cake you loved."
He said it with a tone full of childish pride,
trying to hide that mask beneath his calm.
His mother slowly raised her head, the fatigue fading from her features.
Her eyes widened slightly,
her hand covering her mouth in surprise,
a shy smile breaking across her tired face.
> "Oh my God… I didn't even remember you remembered it."
She said it in a sincere tone, filled with age and wonder,
as if she almost forgot the taste of joy.
> "How could I forget?"
Koran replied gently, pushing the plate toward her.
"I saved the money… just for you."
A faint shadow of childhood sparkled in his eyes,
still not completely extinguished.
His mother sat in front of him, touching the edge of the plate with her fingertips,
as if afraid the dream would shatter.
Finally, she lifted the fork and tasted a small bite.
Then… silence.
That moment stretched on, heavier than any conversation.
She closed her eyes slowly, a tear welling faintly, and sighed—
then laughed.
A soft, warm laugh…
the first laugh she had in years.
> "Oh God… I haven't tasted anything like this since…
your father used to buy it for me."
She said it while smiling with closed eyes, lost in memory.
Koran's expression didn't change much,
but something moved gently behind his eyes.
He only smiled and commented with a teasing tone:
> "Well… I guess I inherited something good from him after all."
His mother laughed more clearly,
like a girl again, if only for a moment.
In that moment, there was nothing—
no world outside, no news, no politics,
nothing but a mother, her son, an old cake, and cups of cold tea
floating above it all.
They exchanged laughs and old stories,
his mother teasing him about his teenage years,
and Koran defending himself shyly.
> "Remember the day you ran in the rain saying you were a knight?"
She laughed, and Koran put his hand to his forehead, sighing.
> "Enough… please don't remind me of those seasons."
He said it with a broken laugh, but he felt a rare softness in his heart.
Even he hadn't expected to laugh this honestly today.
There was something strange about those moments
that made him want to hold onto them deeply.
> "Maybe… life isn't so bad after all,"
Koran thought, watching his mother laugh sincerely.
A warm, quiet moment—
free from worries, free from expectations…
a moment that might never come again.
After their laughter faded, his mother wiped tears from her eyes,
and Koran looked at the cake—only crumbs were left.
Then he raised his eyes to her,
hesitating for a moment,
as if something inside his chest stalled his words.
He said with a warm, joking tone:
> "To be honest…
the cake alone isn't enough."
His mother looked at him with a surprised, playful expression:
> "Don't tell me you brought more surprises.
My heart can't take it."
Koran laughed softly and gently said:
> "How about a little walk? Just to get some air."
She raised an eyebrow in surprise—
Koran had always preferred staying home since he was a child.
> "A walk? At this hour?"
Her voice sounded partly skeptical but full of curiosity.
Koran smiled sincerely, taking her hand:
> "I just want to run away from… everything for a bit.
And see you laugh more tonight."
She couldn't say anything.
Her heart trembled.
She just nodded, quietly.
> "Well… if the family knight himself is asking,
I guess I can't say no."
She stood up, smiled, and Koran helped her with her coat.
They wore it gently—
like it was an old tradition they had forgotten.
> "Ready, milady?"
Koran asked playfully as he opened the door.
> "Ready, sir,"
his mother laughed lightly.
They left together,
leaving behind the warm kitchen and the small cake
that had lit up that night.