The forest was cold, just as he remembered it, Mother still standing right in front of him.
"Poor little soul, you're trembling. Even now...your body knows what your mind refuses to accept." The warmth of Mother's voice tried to retake him. "I know you're tired, Ren..."
Ren said nothing in return, only clenching his dagger tighter in his hand.
Her form moved forward. "I can give you rest. Not peace...Rest. No more waking up in blood. No more running. No more crying when you think you're alone."
Ren lowered his head, avoiding the sight of Mother's ghostly figure.
"I remember your mother's voice, you know. I can speak it...The lullaby she hummed when the bruises were fresh...When your father's voice was still echoing off the walls...Soft little notes to keep her hands from shaking...Don't you miss her?"
Ren clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay quiet.
"The way she held you even when she was afraid...The way she smiled through the pain to comfort you..." Mother moved toward him again, her smoky hands caressing his cheeks. "You were so small. So sick...So fragile...Every cough made her afraid you wouldn't wake up again...But she loved you through all of it. She never stopped. Ren, I can bring her back..."
He slowly looked up at the faceless void in front of him.
"I...will kill you," Ren said, low and steady, as if he were making a promise only she could hear. "I don't care how long it takes...I don't care how many times I fall. I don't care if I'm ripped apart over and over and over again. With my own hands...I will destroy you."
Mother didn't flinch.
She only watched him—if such a thing could be called watching.
The air was so still he could hear his own heart pounding in his chest. Then, her form began to dissolve—smoke unraveling at the edges.
"You poor little soul...carrying so much weight for a boy who was never built to stand."
And then, just like that, she vanished.
The forest swallowed the silence as Ren stood there frozen. The cold returned, this time seeping through his clothes and biting into his bones. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. His shoulders dropped. His grip on the dagger loosened.
It had taken everything not to listen to her. Not to lean into her soft voice and let it lull him into forgetting. Into believing.
"She knew...she knew things she shouldn't. Things I buried so deep even I don't touch them anymore." Ren thought to himself.
He clenched his jaw, refusing to let the ache in his chest grow into anything else.
Not grief
Not longing
And certainly not regret.
Ren's hand rose to his face, the fingertips brushing the place where Mother's had touched him. The warmth she faked still lingered like a curse. And beneath it—shame.
Part of him still wanted to believe she could bring his mother back. That somewhere in this twisted place, comfort could exist without a cost.
But that wasn't real.
None of this was.
He looked down at the dagger in his hand, the handle slick with sweat.
"How would I even kill her...She doesn't even bleed."
He wasn't even sure if she had a body. She was something else—fog and memory, voice and sorrow, made only real enough to hurt.
Then, his legs finally moved again.
"You carry so much weight..."
The thought echoed through him.
"I never asked to carry anything," Ren whispered to no one.
But that wasn't true. He had asked. Not in words. In survival. Every time, he got back up. Every time, he chose to keep walking. Every time, he said no to her.
He'd chosen to carry it. All of it. His mother's love. His father's hate. The promise of vengeance. The fear of becoming something worse.
Because if he dropped it all—if he gave in—then what would be left of him?
Nothing.
Just another corpse wandering in the dark.
Ren kept moving.
His steps were slow, unsteady. But they were forward. That was all that mattered.
He didn't know where the path led. But he knew what waited if he turned back.
The trees thinned as Ren walked, but the cold stayed with him, draped over his shoulders. The wind didn't howl here. It whispered—soft, breathless murmurs through brittle branches.
He adjusted the grip on his dagger, though his fingers were numb.
"Carrying so much weight for a boy who was never built to stand."
Her words wouldn't leave him. They weren't a taunt. They weren't even cruel. But what unsettled him most—they were true.
Ren wasn't built for this. He never had been.
His body had been breaking since childhood. His lungs were always too small, his bones too brittle. The sick boy. The quiet boy. The one who couldn't run as fast, couldn't breathe as deep. He remembered lying in bed, the world a blur of ceiling cracks and fevered dreams. While downstairs, just beneath him, the walls shook with his father's shouting.
And his mother.
She would come up after, hands trembling, whispering that tune under her breath, too quiet for the storm below to hear. She'd press a cool cloth to his head and hum like the sound could stitch their world back together.
He used to pretend it worked.
Ren stepped over a gnarled root and nearly lost his footing, barely catching his balance.
She offered rest.
That was the cruelest part. Not peace, not salvation. Just rest.
And a part of him—deep, raw, silent—had wanted to say yes.
He'd imagined it: a world without choking on dirt or blood. A world where he could lie down and stay down. Where the ground was finally still beneath him.
But then what? What would he be if he gave that up?
Nothing. Just another piece of the forest. Just another lost soul swallowed by the dark.
He couldn't let that happen. Not when he still remembered her face.
She was kind. She was soft when the world was hard. She sang for him, even when she had no voice left.
And that thing—that thing hidden in the trees—had dared to wear her voice like a mask.
Ren's hand tightened around the dagger. He pressed on, step by step.
"She's not your voice to use...Not your name to speak."
The trees grew darker again, but Ren didn't stop.
Because the next time they met—the next time he saw her—he wouldn't tremble.
He wouldn't hesitate.
He'd remember who he was.
What he carried.
The forest blurred at the edges as Ren walked, his vision fogging with memory.
He was eight.
The world back then was smaller. Just the size of his bedroom, a frail bed, and the ache in his chest. He remembered the weight of the blankets, damp with sweat. The coughing that left his throat raw. He couldn't sleep. Not with the silence pressing down on the house.
Then—footsteps, light and careful.
The door cracked open, and his mother slipped in.
"Hey, baby..." His mother said, her voice soft. It always was after an argument. "You still awake?"
Ren blinked up at her. His grey eyes were glassy, skin too pale.
"I had a bad dream," He whispered. "And my chest hurts."
"I know, sweetheart," She murmured. She sat beside him, her hands trembling slightly as she brushed the hair from his forehead. "You've been brave all day."
He reached for her wrist, small fingers curling around her sleeve.
"Where's Dad?" He asked.
She hesitated. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"He went out for a bit."
Ren could see the bruises blooming just below her collarbone, half-hidden by her cardigan. She turned her head like she didn't want him to notice—but he always noticed.
"I'm sorry I got sick again," Ren whispered. "If I didn't—"
"Hey." She took his face in both hands, gently, firmly. "Don't say that. You didn't do anything wrong."
"But he said—"
"I don't care what he said," She cut in, more fiercely than he'd ever heard her speak. Then softer, as if afraid someone might hear. "You didn't make him this way, Ren. And you didn't make me stay."
Tears welled in his eyes.
"I just want you to be okay." Ren pleaded, worried for his mother.
Her face crumpled for a second—but only for a second. Then she leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"Sleep now," She whispered. "I'll hum, just like always."
She tucked the blanket beneath his chin and began to hum. That same, low lullaby—no words, just breath and sorrow turned into sound. It was all she had left to give.
Ren closed his eyes, even though he didn't want to sleep. He just wanted the song to last forever. And it did, in a way. Because when he woke the next morning—
She was gone.
Back in the forest, his boots crunched on dead leaves. Ren swallowed the tightness in his throat. He spoke aloud, though no one was there to hear.
"She sang to me even when she was breaking inside." He turned his gaze skyward, jaw tight. "She died because I wasn't enough. Because I kept getting sick. Because she thought she couldn't protect me anymore."
He blinked away the sting behind his eyes, continuing on to his unknown destination.