At first, nothing seemed different.
The mornings still arrived with pale light sliding across the floors. The kettle still sang softly in the kitchen. Sparrows still gathered along the fence posts, arguing in tiny voices.
But the house began to move more slowly.
Not all at once.
Not enough for anyone to point to.
Just slowly.
Her mother began waking later. At first, it was only a little. Instead of rising with the sun, she rose when the light had already warmed the courtyard stones. Instead of preparing breakfast herself, she remained seated while a servant brought tea.
"She is resting," the servants said kindly.
The girl nodded. Rest was good.
Rest meant comfort. Rest meant safety. So she tiptoed when she walked and spoke in whispers, as if loud sounds might chase the rest away.
Then came the medicine.
Small paper packets. Folded carefully.
Tied with thin string. Set beside her mother's pillow.
The girl watched the first time her mother drank one. The powder dissolved into water, turning it cloudy. Her mother lifted the cup with steady hands and swallowed without complaint, even though her eyes closed slightly at the taste.
"What is it?" the girl asked.
"Something to help me stay strong," her mother replied gently.
The girl brightened.
"Then you should drink two."
Her mother smiled faintly. "One is enough."
Days passed.
Then more.
The paper packets multiplied.
One became three. Three became five.
Five became a small wooden tray filled with folded squares. The girl began to count them each morning.
Not because she worried. But because she liked numbers.
Her mother stopped going outside.
The veranda remained empty. The garden gate stayed closed. The flower basket hung untouched on its hook.
"Just until I feel better," her mother said whenever anyone asked.
The girl believed her. She always believed her.
One afternoon, while arranging pebbles into neat little lines across the floor, the girl heard a sound behind her.
A soft thud.
She turned.
Her mother was on the ground. Her sleeve had fallen loose. One hand lay against the floorboards as if she had meant to catch herself but arrived too late.
For a moment, the girl only stared.
Not frightened.
Just confused.
"Mama?"
Her mother's eyes were closed.
The girl crawled closer and poked her sleeve gently.
"Mama, the floor is for feet."
No answer.
She frowned and poked again.
"Mama?"
Servants rushed in moments later.
Voices filled the room. Hands lifted her mother. Someone carried her away. The girl remained kneeling where she was, watching the doorway long after everyone had gone.
She did not cry.
She was waiting for someone to explain.
No one did.
After that, her mother stayed in bed.
Always.
Morning light would creep across the bedding, climb slowly up the blankets, and rest against her mother's shoulder, but she did not rise with it anymore.
Her hands felt cooler when the girl held them. Her voice grew softer.
Sometimes she spoke only with her eyes.
"Are you tired?" the girl asked one evening.
Her mother nodded faintly.
"Then sleep," the girl whispered. "I'll stay quiet."
She climbed carefully beside her and curled at the edge of the mattress, small enough not to disturb the blankets. She watched her mother's breathing the way children watch waves: patiently, curiously, trusting they will always return.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Some nights, the breathing paused. Just long enough for the girl's chest to tighten. Then it would start again. And she would relax.
The last day arrived without warning.
Morning came. Sunlight touched the floor.
Birds sang.
The world did not change at all. She was sitting beside the bed, braiding the loose threads at the edge of her sleeve, when she noticed something strange. Her mother had not breathed in a while.
She waited.
She tilted her head.
She leaned closer.
Still nothing.
"Mama?"
Silence.
She placed her small hand on her mother's arm.
Cold.
"Mama?"
She shook her gently.
"Mama, morning came."
The room did not answer.
She waited.
Because surely—
surely—
her mother would wake soon.
She always did.
The servants found her there sometime later, still sitting patiently beside the bed, her hand resting where warmth used to be.
Outside, petals fell.
Softly.
Endlessly.