We left the forest behind, Wanderer.
The path ahead twisted with fog and dandelion seeds, like lost wishes.
We didn't speak much. I floated beside you in silence.
You walked like someone halfway between a dream and a memory.
And then… we reached it.
A village too small to be on maps. No name signs. No gates.
Just crooked fences, weathered homes, and laughter that didn't match the silence around it.
That's when we saw her.
A woman—mid-40s, hair tied in a loose bun, wearing a faded yellow apron dusted with flour.
She was outside her house, sweeping the porch, humming an old lullaby.
And she was smiling.
Smiling so brightly it could fool the sun.
She noticed you.
"Oh, dear! A traveler? And with a… what a cute puffball you have there!"
You nodded. I blinked—unsure if she truly saw me.
She didn't. Not really.
"Come in, come in! I was just about to make tea. My son should be waking up soon—you'll love him; he's a little shy with strangers but such a sweetheart."
You followed her. Quietly. Out of curiosity… or something else.
The house was warm.
Too warm.
Curtains let sunlight in, but the glass was cloudy.
There were photo frames all around, most with the same boy—a teen, around your age.
Dark hair. Kind eyes.
In every photo… he stood beside her. Always smiling.
You sat in the living room. She returned with biscuits, tea, and stories.
So many stories.
She told you how her son used to help the elders with lifting sacks of rice.
How he loved carving animals out of wood.
How he hated rainy days but always danced barefoot in the puddles anyway.
How he promised to take her to see the city one day, just the two of them.
She laughed when she remembered how he burned a whole pot of rice once.
You listened.
"He's just upstairs now," she said. "Still asleep. He stays up late these days, studying hard."
She poured you more tea, then looked out the window, her smile faltering for half a second.
"He's a good boy. He's just… tired lately. But he's here. He's still here."
You and I didn't say anything.
We're spirits, after all.
We don't interfere.
We just remember.
But the longer we sat in that living room, the colder it began to feel.
Eventually, she stood up.
"Would you like to meet him? I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
You nodded slowly.
She led you up creaking stairs to a door with stickers spelling his name—faded, peeling letters.
She knocked gently, then opened it.
The room was neat. Dustless. Like someone cleaned it every single day.
There were books on the table. A jacket on the chair.
And on the bed…
…was him.
Or what was left of him.
A boy's body. Perfectly preserved, but unmistakably lifeless.
Skin pale. Lips slightly parted. Blankets tucked gently around him.
She sat beside him on the bed and brushed his hair with trembling fingers.
"Still pretending to sleep, huh?" she chuckled, voice cracking.
"Don't mind him. He's always been shy."
You didn't speak.
Neither did I.
The room didn't need our voices.
It had too many already—echoes she created to drown out the one thing she couldn't face.
"He's… he's just sleeping," she whispered.
"He'll wake up. He promised."
She smiled again.
Wider than before. So wide it trembled.
"He promised."
We left before the tea went cold.
You said nothing as we stepped back onto the path.
And for the first time, I floated a little closer to you.
Because I felt it.
You didn't cry.
But I think… you almost remembered what sadness felt like.
Before we left the village, an old woman called out to us.
She sat by the well, her back hunched, her hands dusted with flour.
She didn't ask who we were.
She just looked at the house—the one with the yellow curtains and warm tea—and said softly.
"You met her, didn't you? The smiling one."
You nodded once.
"She makes the best biscuits. Always did.
Used to bring a batch to every village festival.
Her boy was just like her—kind, smart, and quiet.
They were always together. You'd never see one without the other."
She glanced at the window of the house.
"After he passed, we thought she'd leave.
But she stayed.
And she kept talking to him like nothing had happened."
You didn't respond. I floated silently by your side.
The woman sighed. Her eyes were distant, misty with memory.
"Some people say she's lost her mind.
But me? I think she's just holding onto the only thing that ever loved her back."
She looked down at her hands.
"I used to hear him at night, playing music and talking in his sleep.
Now I only hear her voice.
Singing to a boy who doesn't answer anymore."
She didn't ask us to help.
She didn't warn us to stay away.
She simply said.
"If you pass by again, bring her some lemons.
Her son loved lemon tea."
Then she turned back to kneading dough, like her words had already been carried off by the wind.
And that's when we began to understand…
He was born in the coldest winter their village had ever known.
No one expected him to survive.
But he did—screaming louder than the snowstorms, tiny fists shaking in defiance.
To her, he was everything.
A miracle she didn't ask for, but one she loved more than her own breath.
They were poor, yes.
But he never saw her cry about it.
She cooked meals with leftovers from neighbors, made toys out of broken parts, and stitched clothes from torn fabric.
He once asked her.
"Why do you work so much, Mama?"
She answered with a smile:
"So your hands won't have to bleed like mine."
He never forgot that.
As he grew older, he learned to read by candlelight and fix shoes in exchange for school supplies.
He was smart. Polite. A little too quiet.
But every word he saved was poured into her.
"Mama, one day I'll buy you a real house."
"Mama, I'll take you to the city; we'll ride a train."
"Mama, you won't have to carry water from the well anymore."
She laughed every time, brushing his hair back.
"All I need is you."
But not everything was seen.
Not the letters he hid in the drawer—rejection letters from scholarships.
Not the bruises he came home with after defending a classmate from bullies.
Not the way he sat on the roof sometimes, just watching the stars and whispering to them.
"Please… don't let her see me cry."
He worked extra hours, skipped meals, and stopped sleeping.
He had one dream left.
To make her proud.
And then, one day, he didn't come down for breakfast.
She thought he was still asleep.
She knocked. No answer.
Opened the door. Still breathing… but barely.
He had collapsed from exhaustion—and his heart, too weak, never recovered.
She screamed. Called for help.
But the village had no clinic.
By the time they reached the next town, he was gone.
Just sixteen.
A boy who gave everything, quietly.
At the funeral, she didn't cry.
She didn't speak.
She didn't sit down.
She simply smiled and said,
"He's just tired. He'll wake up."
They buried the coffin. But she… she went back home.
She cleaned his room. Made his bed. Talked to the air.
"Don't be shy, dear. We have guests."
Each day, she brewed tea for him.
Each night, she hummed his lullaby and said,
"Tomorrow, we'll visit the city together."
The neighbors grew quiet. Some pitied her.
Others avoided her.
But no one dared take him away from her room.
They all knew what would happen if they tried.
She wasn't waiting for him.
She was keeping him here.
With her.
Forever.
And so… the house smiled.
A house where time never moved.
Where tea always poured, biscuits never spoiled, and the mother sang to the ghost of her son…
...while his body slept on.