I knew where I was before I'd opened my eyes.
Not because I'd been here before — because of the smell. The light. The particular quality of the air, something that couldn't be named but that my body recognised before my mind caught up.
Home.
Not the current one. The one before — the one from when she was still here. Old tiles, old curtains, the door at the end of the hall that let in cold air in winter, and in the kitchen a warmth that was always there, carried by the steam.
From the kitchen, sound.
Hm — Hmhm — Hm — Hm — Hmhm —
No. Wait.
Hm — Hmhmhm — Hmhm — Hm —
I stood in the living room, not moving, and let the melody come in from the kitchen. Let it settle into the space around me.
Before — when I found myself in a place like this — I would check for an exit first. Confirm a way out before letting myself get close to anything. Keep the reasoning part of my mind running.
This time, I stood there and didn't want to do any of that.
I knew this was the dream. I knew the person in the kitchen wasn't real. I knew this space would vanish at some point. I knew all of it.
And I walked to the kitchen anyway.
I pushed the door open. She was there with her back to me, standing at the stove, the melody coming from her steadily and without effort, the way it always had. I walked in. I didn't call her name. I just walked across the room and put my arms around her from behind, pressing my face against her back, and closed my eyes.
Her hands came to my arm. A light, slow pat.
"What's wrong?"
I didn't answer.
"Did something happen at school?" Her voice was gentle in a particular way — the kind that's trying not to add pressure.
I shook my head, face still against her back. My voice came out slightly muffled. "Nothing."
"Then what?"
I wanted to say: nothing. Something vague, something that would keep the conversation going. But the words reached my throat and sat there, and then the back of my eyes started to burn.
I hadn't thought I could anymore.
I'd thought this — whatever was left in me to give — had already been used. But she was here, her hand on my arm, her smell around me, and what I'd believed was gone came up all at once.
"Mum," I said. My voice was unsteady. "I'm so tired."
She didn't speak. She turned — fully, both arms coming around my back, a real embrace, and my face went into her shoulder. That warmth. That smell. That particular quality of being held by her, like being enclosed in something outside of which the rest of the world couldn't reach.
I cried.
Not the loud kind. The kind that's been held back for too long, held back with too much effort, until it can't be held anymore. The tears simply fell. I let them. Let all of it come out and go wherever it went.
She didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't say it would be fine. She just kept moving her hand across my back, slowly, one pass after another, saying nothing except: I'm here. I've always been here.
I cried for a long time. Long enough for it to change — less tears, more breath, the ache in my nose beginning to ease. Something in my body that had been wound tight for longer than I could trace gradually gave just slightly. For the first time, in her arms, in this space.
"Mum," I said. My voice was very quiet. "Even though I know this is a dream. I don't want to leave."
She kept going — her hand still moving on my back.
"Even though I know this isn't real. I still want to stay here like this."
I paused. "I want to go back. But I don't know how. I've tried so many times. Every time I thought I was out, I was still inside. I'm so tired."
She pulled me a little closer.
"I know," she said. Very low, very close, right beside my ear. "I know you're tired."
Those words, and I was crying again — quietly this time, just a few tears, then it stopped. I stayed against her shoulder, eyes closed, feeling her breathing lift and lower her chest, feeling the pressure of her hands, trying to hold all of it — trying to press it into somewhere deeper than memory, somewhere that would still be there even if this was taken away.
I knew this was constructed.
I knew that when she said "I know you're tired," it wasn't her saying it — it was the dream, which had built her, which had built this. I knew that however long I stayed here, nothing would change on the outside. The machine would still be there. The situation would still be what it was. Everything I was carrying would still be waiting.
But I wanted to stay here.
This was the first time I'd admitted that fully — not being lured, not being unaware, but knowing completely and still wanting to stay. Because this was the only place where I could put it all down for a moment. Where I didn't have to keep checking, keep testing, keep holding the structure of myself up. I could just be here, and she would keep her hand moving on my back.
Even if it was only this.
"Mum," I said. "Will you hum for me."
She didn't answer with words. She just began, softly.
Hm — Hmhmhm — Hmhm — Hm —
I stayed against her shoulder and listened.
Something was slightly off. The thought surfaced, barely formed — but I was too far into being tired to pick it up and examine it. I let it go, let it sink back down, and stayed where I was.
[Anomaly Detected]
[System Correction Initiated — Transitioning to New Environment in Ten Seconds]
I didn't pull away. Didn't struggle. I pressed my face deeper into her shoulder and closed my hand around the fabric of her clothes, as if holding on could give me one extra second.
Ten seconds.
"Mum."
Just her name. Nothing attached to it. Just letting it exist in the room, one more time, while there was still a room.
Then her warmth was gone.
Then everything was gone.