The call came on a Tuesday.
My mother answered the phone, though of course it was meant for me. Her voice tightened, high-pitched and sugary—the way it always did when she thought she was performing for an invisible audience.
"Yes, this is his mother. Oh? Oh, really? That's wonderful. Yes, I'll tell him."
She hung up slowly, savoring the moment as if stretching out a sweet on her tongue. Then she turned to me, eyes shining.
"They want you back."
I didn't move. I had been in the middle of sketching a still life—an apple balanced against the spine of a geometry textbook—but the pencil remained in my hand, hovering just above the page.
"For the next round?" I asked.
"Yes." She clasped her hands together, knuckles whitening. "They want you back in Los Angeles."
Her words should have carried relief, even triumph. But there was something off in the cadence. She didn't sound like someone celebrating. She sounded like someone bracing.
I leaned back in my chair, watching her carefully. "Then we'll go."
Her mouth twitched. The shine in her eyes dulled into something tighter, something defensive.
"We don't have to."
"Yes, we do," I said simply.
"No." The word snapped out too fast, too sharp. "We're not going back. They'll… they'll see you. They'll take you. You don't understand."
Her breath quickened. She stepped closer, reaching as though to pull the pencil from my hand, to stop the apple from existing on the page.
"They can't have you," she whispered. "You're mine. Do you understand? Mine."
For a long moment I just looked at her. The same woman who sliced my strawberries into neat, perfect halves every morning. The same woman who shadowed me through library aisles as if afraid the shelves might swallow me whole.
Her obsession had finally crystallized into words.
I sighed. Quietly. Resigned.
Then I let my perception shift.
The room bled into another layer of reality, faint and translucent, like pulling gauze from a painting to reveal what lay beneath. Threads of light stretched from her—thin, silver strands coiled deep into her chest and trailing endlessly outward, disappearing into infinity. Spirit strings.
And then, as if sensing gravity, they bent.
Not toward the distance. Toward me.
One by one, they snapped taut, converging in my direction. In less than a heartbeat they laced into my fingers, invisible to any human eye.
Control settled over me like the weight of a new cloak.
My mother froze mid-step. Her pupils dilated, then refocused. The tremor in her hands stilled. She blinked once, slowly, as if waking from a dream.
And then she smiled.
The same soft, doting smile she always wore. As though nothing had happened.
I studied her expressionlessly. My hand closed around the strings.
"A bitty," I murmured.
She tilted her head, still smiling. "What was that, sweetheart?"
"Nothing."
She moved again, fluid and natural, walking toward me as though nothing at all had changed. But everything had. She was no longer just my mother. She was my marionette. My spirit worm inside her made her no different from her normal self.
---
Life continued as if the conversation had never happened.
The next day she packed our bags. She hummed under her breath as she folded shirts and tucked away the violin case. When she glanced at me, her eyes were warm, worshipful, ordinary.
Only I knew that warmth was hollow now, emptied and filled again by strings.
We flew back to Los Angeles a week later. The process was blurred by handlers and schedules, just as before. No one saw the strings. No one noticed the shift. To the world, we were the same mother and son—another contestant returning for another chance.
The set had changed slightly. New faces, new handlers, but the same polished corridors with their faint smell of hairspray and stage lights. Contestants milled about nervously, whispering, rehearsing, laughing too loudly to mask their fear.
I walked among them silently, carrying my violin case in one hand. My mother trailed behind me, every step perfectly natural, her smile soft and reassuring. To anyone else, she was simply a supportive parent.
But I could feel the strings with every breath. They thrummed against my awareness, tight and pliant, waiting for the smallest twitch of command.
If I willed her to laugh, she would laugh.
If I willed her to cry, she would cry.
If I willed her to walk into the sea and never return, she would do so without hesitation.
It was efficient. Clean.
And it was permanent.
---
The waiting rooms were crowded, filled with restless energy. Other parents fussed over their children, offering bottled water, last-minute advice, whispered prayers. My mother mimicked them perfectly, even pressing a tissue into my hand as though I might sweat through my palms.
I sat with my violin resting across my knees, fingers brushing the polished wood. It was still new, the strings unbroken in, but it didn't matter. I would master it soon enough.
Time blurred again, as it always did in these places. Hurry up and wait. Get ready, then sit. Move, then pause.
---
That night, in the hotel after rehearsals, I stood at the window while she unpacked our bags. The city lights stretched outward in a smear of gold and red, infinite and indifferent.
She turned to me, smiling. "You'll shine tomorrow. I know you will."
I didn't respond. My reflection stared back at me in the glass—expressionless, steady, with faint glimmers of silver threads behind my shoulders.
I thought of the stage.
I thought of the audience.
I thought of the wishes that would soon fall on me again, a second flood.
My lips curved, faint and deliberate.
"Of course I will," I said.
She nodded eagerly, her smile unwavering.
I looked at her, and she looked at me. We smiled at the same time, as we are the same person.