Ethan Hayes POV
I carefully closed the apartment door behind me, making sure not to wake Mom with a loud slam. The air still carried the faint smell of yesterday's stew—vegetables and herbs cooked into a warm, comforting scent—mixed with the dampness of the walls and the old, worn-out wood. I didn't even bother turning on the ceiling light. The glow from the streetlight outside spread across the floor, lighting up the room
Mom was asleep in her bedroom at the far end of the hall. Lately, she'd been going to bed earlier than usual, worn out from her long days at the clinic. I paused in the doorway and listened to her breathing. She moved a little bit but remained asleep.
I let out a silent breath and leaned against the living room doorway, letting the tension and stress of the day sink into my shoulders. My back ached from lifting crates all day at the warehouse, and my eyes stings from staring at the computer screen for hours. Even my hands felt heavy, carrying the lingering smell of oil from the machines I'd been working with. It was like my whole body didn't want to move anymore after such a long and exhausting day.
Rubbing my arms, I crossed the small living room without turning on a light. The apartment was simple—a worn-out sofa, a scratched wooden table, and shelves stacked with old books, manuals, and magazines—but it felt safe because it was home.
When Mom first moved in after Dad died, she had painted the walls a soft cream color. Over the years, it had faded and curled at the edges. Tonight, the hallway from the front door to the bedroom felt narrower than usual, like the walls themselves were slowly closing in.
I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher. The cold glass stung my fingers, snapping me out of my tired haze. My eyes drifted to the calendar pinned on the fridge. Tomorrow's schedule was packed with bills, appointments, and basketball practices, all scribbled in different colors. The tasks kept piling on top of each other, and for a moment, I felt like I might drown under their weight.
Work. Bills. Help Mom. Look after Liam, Noah, and Grace. Then sleep and repeat it again.
My dream of playing professional basketball felt like it was slowly slipping away, or as if it belonged to someone else. I could still hear the bounce of the ball on polished floors, the squeak of sneakers, the smell of sweat and excitement at the court, and even the rush of adrenaline as I dodged my opponents—but those days now seemed old and unreachable.
I pressed my forehead into my palms and sighed heavily. I missed the thrill of the game, the strategies, and the freedom of being on the court. But how could I chase that dream when my family relied on me every single day?
My younger brothers, Liam and Noah, were still in school—full of energy and quick to argue over even the smallest things. My little sister, Grace, followed me everywhere, asking questions about anything and everything, from sports to science fiction. Our laughter and noise used to fill the apartment, but lately, I feel distant and drained from all the work. My long hours left little to no time for fun. Sometimes, I wondered if they already saw me as someone always too busy to care.
I sat down at the table, the glass of water untouched, staring at the chaos on the calendar. Tomorrow's tasks gathered like mountains—but deep down, a part of me still clings to the hope that one day, between work and worry, I'd find time to play again.
I thought about sneaking out for late-night practice at the gym. The sound of the ball bouncing on hardwood, the quiet emptiness of the court—I wanted that solitude, that space where I could just be with the game. But my responsibilities felt like chains, keeping me tied down to my home.
Just then, the bedroom door creaked open. Mom appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Her hair was loosely clipped back, and she gave me a tired but warm smile.
"You're home early," she said. Her eyes lingering on me, full of concern.
"I guess I've been early lately," I replied with a faint grin. "The overtime's catching up."
She reached out and smoothed my hair back, a touch gentle and familiar from years of care. "You work too much. You have to rest sometimes," she said.
"I'll try," I whispered, unsure how to say that trying wasn't enough, that the weight of everything kept pulling me back.
Her eyes softened. "You're strong, Ethan. But even strong people need rest sometimes." She slipped back into the dim room without another word, leaving me standing there with the quiet hum of the apartment.
My chest tightened for a moment with that familiar feeling of worry and guilt, but I pushed it aside. I couldn't dwell on it. I took another sip of water, then stood. Maybe I could head out—just for an hour—to shoot some hoops and clear my mind.
I pulled on my jacket and checked my phone. Liam needed help with homework. Noah was begging for another game. Grace was asking how to shoot like me. I smiled, picturing their eager faces, and made a quiet promise to spend more time with them whenever I could.
I glanced once at Mom's door before stepping into the hallway. The corridor stretched ahead, pale and cracked. The scent of dust and old wood pressed in, but I barely noticed. My eyes stayed fixed on the stairwell as I walked down, counting the steps without even thinking.
Outside, the night felt calm and wide, dotted with faint stars. The streets were quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the bark of a nearby dog. Nothing special—just an ordinary evening—but the thought of a brief escape gave me a nervous excitement. I took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs, and stepped into the night, not knowing that this quiet walk would be the start of something that would change everything.