The wind howled through the broken windowpanes, pulling dust across the faded rug. The once-vibrant walls of their family home were now chipped and tired, like the country they once called free. Jimi stood by the door, stiff in the dark gray uniform of a Greenland recruit, his boots barely worn. His posture was sharp, freshly trained. His mother sat across the room in her frayed shawl, hunched in a wooden chair that creaked under her trembling limbs.
She had just returned from the market. The silence had met her like a slap, and then she saw it—his uniform folded neatly on the table, his bag packed. She knew before he spoke.
"You're leaving," she said coldly, not looking up as she set a withered potato on the counter.
Jimi nodded. "They're shipping us out tomorrow. I came to say goodbye."
Her hands stopped moving. A slow breath escaped her lips. She turned, her eyes sharp despite the deep lines of grief carved into her face.
"Goodbye?" she echoed. "Is that all I get? After everything your father gave—after everything this family lost?"
"Ma, it's not like that," Jimi said, stepping closer. "I'm not betraying anyone. I'm doing what I have to. There's no future in hiding, starving, scavenging. Forun is gone. And we have to survive in the world that is, not the one we lost."
She stared at him, eyes burning. "Forun is not gone. It lives in you. In me. In the people who still dare to fight. What you're doing—joining them—it's not survival. It's surrender."
"You think I don't feel it?" Jimi shot back, his voice rising. "You think it doesn't kill me every time I walk past a blown-out school, or see a flag that doesn't belong to us flying over City Hall? But we lost, Ma! And I'm tired of being hunted in my own home. They offered me a role. A job. Food. I'm not going to die in a ditch like some ghost of a country that doesn't exist anymore!"
"You sound just like them," she said quietly. "That's what they want. That's what they feed you. If they can't break your body, they break your mind."
Jimi's fists clenched. "You think it's easy for me? That I'm doing this because I want to? I'm doing it for you. For us. They don't touch families of recruits. You won't have to wait in line for scraps. You'll be safe."
His mother laughed, bitter and short. "Safe? While you wear the uniform of the bastards who shot your father in the street?"
The words struck like a slap, and Jimi flinched.
"You don't get to rewrite what happened," she said, her voice trembling now, thick with pain. "Your father didn't die for this. He died because he refused to kneel. Because he believed you—we—could stand for something better. You dishonor him with every breath you take in that uniform."
Jimi's jaw tightened. "And what did his sacrifice get us? A grave. A burned village. A future with nothing but war and starvation. You want to talk about standing? I'm standing now. I'm making sure I don't end up like him."
"You think that uniform makes you strong? That's not strength, Jimi. That's fear dressed up in iron."
"I'm not afraid!" he shouted.
"You are!" she yelled back, rising suddenly, her frame trembling with rage. "You're afraid of suffering, afraid of fighting a war you think we've already lost. But you forget—we only lose when we stop believing we can win. And right now, my son has become the very thing his father gave his life to fight!"
A heavy silence fell.
Jimi's breathing was ragged. His eyes glistened, but he blinked the tears away. He turned toward the door.
"I didn't come here to be judged," he said, voice low. "I came to say goodbye."
"You came here hoping I'd forgive you," she said softly. "But you haven't asked for that. Because deep down, you know you can't."
He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.
"I hope someday," she said, her voice breaking, "you find your way back. To who you really are. To who your father believed you could be."
He didn't turn around. Didn't speak. The door opened, spilling pale light across the worn floorboards.
And then he was gone.
His mother stood alone in the quiet. She didn't cry—not yet. She only stared at the space he had left behind, as if his shadow still lingered there.
As if somewhere inside, a boy named Jimi still hadn't left.