Cold air.
Damp leaves.
The faint scent of moss and dew.
Max trudged through the woods, feet dragging slightly across the undergrowth. His boots brushed against roots and broken twigs. Everything felt quiet. Too quiet.
Why is she so serious today…?
He glanced ahead.
His mother. Sitting alone on a fallen log, her back rigid, arms folded across her knees. Eyes locked on the earth. No smile. No teasing. No light in her voice when she called him earlier.
She's never like this in the mornings…
Usually she laughed. Spoke in a sing-song voice. Bounced from tree to tree like a child pretending to be some forest spirit. But not today.
Today…
Today was the 26th of October.
His birthday. Eighteen.
The thought settled heavy in his chest.
Eighteen. I'm supposed to be… what? A man? An adult? I still don't feel like one.
He clenched his fists.
Walked slower.
The wind shifted, brushing his hair aside. The sky above the trees was pale, greyish blue, streaked with morning light. He heard a crow call somewhere in the distance.
She woke me up without a smile. Just said, "Follow me." No jokes. No breakfast. Nothing.
He swallowed hard.
His breath came out shallow.
The closer he got, the tighter the knot in his stomach twisted. His mother hadn't moved. Not a twitch. Her presence felt… heavier than usual. Still. Focused.
What is she going to say?
The future felt like fog—thick, shapeless, pressing against him. He didn't know if he should run forward or back into the safety of the house, into the soft arms of yesterday.
But he kept walking.
One step. Then another.
Until her shadow swallowed his feet.
Max stood still.
The silence between them hung like mist. Cold. Heavy.
He shifted his weight, eyes narrowing.
"…Mum," he said softly. "What's going on?"
No answer.
She looked up at him.
Something flickered behind her eyes. Worry? Guilt? Fear?
Then she looked away.
Her fingers dug into her knees. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"I… I…"
She winced. A shaky breath. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Max watched her, chest tight.
She's not like this. She always has the right words. Always teasing… always bright.
Now?
Now she looked like she was searching for a lifeline. Drowning in her own thoughts.
He lowered his voice. Took a step closer.
"Can I… sit?"
She blinked. Snapped out of her trance.
Her lips curled—forced. That same old mischievous smile, but it wobbled at the edges.
"Well," she muttered, trying to sound playful, "if you must…"
Max gave a small nod.
Sat beside her.
The wood was damp. Cold.
Their shoulders barely touched. Yet the space between them felt vast.
Neither spoke.
The wind rustled the trees. A bird called.
Max glanced sideways.
She's pretending again. Like nothing's wrong.
His hands clenched on his lap.
Why does this feel like goodbye?
The forest sang softly around them.
Birds chirped in uneven bursts—some short and high, others long and lilting, as though the woods themselves were trying to speak in riddles. Their melodies echoed gently between the trunks, bouncing off the damp bark and curling into the mist like lazy smoke.
Max breathed in, slowly.
The scent of moss and leaves settled in his lungs, calming the tightness that had lingered in his chest since morning.
His eyes wandered through the trees. The sun had begun to pierce the canopy, sending golden spears of light dancing across the undergrowth. A rustle of wings passed overhead, and a pair of parrots swooped between branches, flashing green and red.
Then—click-clack.
Max tilted his head.
The sound was faint, almost lost in the breeze. But there it was again—click, clack… click…
He frowned for a moment. Then his lips parted in quiet realisation.
"…They're copying us," he murmured.
His mother turned to him, a slow, almost wistful smile creeping across her face.
"Parrots," she said, chuckling under her breath. "Bloody things have been eavesdropping on our sparring since you were five."
Thirteen years.
Max blinked.
Has it really been that long…?
His gaze dropped to his hands. Faint scars. Callouses. Memories of bruised knuckles and aching arms. Of laughter in the dirt. Of wooden sticks clashing again and again under these very trees.
"Feels like yesterday," his mum said, her voice quieter now. "You kept tripping over your own feet."
Max laughed under his breath.
"Yeah," he nodded. "But you always helped me up. Even when you were busy. Even when you came back hurt and tired from—"
He stopped.
The war.
She didn't flinch. But the air shifted.
"…Thanks, Mum," he whispered. "For all of it."
She said nothing. Just reached out. Ruffled his hair like she used to.
And for a moment, the woods felt like home again.
Max's fingers twitched on his knees.
His throat tightened.
The words sat heavy in his chest—clumsy, scared things—but he forced them out.
"Mum…"
He looked up, eyes flickering with uncertainty.
"Is it… is it time?" he asked, voice thin. "For me to… to take your place?"
The words barely made it through the air.
His mum turned to him, lips parting slightly, about to answer. But he didn't let her.
He couldn't.
His voice cracked.
"I'm not ready."
He hunched forward, elbows on his thighs. Staring at the ground. Avoiding her gaze.
"I mean… I trained. I fought. I did everything you told me. Everything Dad told me. I kept up, right?" He let out a dry laugh. "I kept pretending I was fine."
He paused. Swallowed hard.
"But the truth is…"
He lifted his hand. Fingers trembling.
"…My whole world… it's still held together by this tiny thread."
His eyes watered. Not enough to fall. Just enough to blur.
"That thread… it's made of memories. Of you. Of Dad. Of birthdays and silly stories. Of running around barefoot and pretending we were saving the world with sticks."
He gripped the edge of the log.
"If I cut that thread, Mum—" His voice broke. "—then I'm not me anymore."
Silence.
"I don't want to lose that part of myself. I still want to laugh with you. I still want to come home and find you baking something weird again. I want to stay… happy. With us. With our little world."
He looked at her, finally.
His lips trembled.
"I know I said I wanted to be a warrior like you and Dad. But… I never said it because I *wanted* to fight."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I just wanted to make you proud."
Then, quieter still—
"I'm sorry."
She didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
But her eyes… they softened.
Not a hint of disappointment.
Only something warm. Unspoken.
And her hand, gently resting over his.
She stayed quiet for a long while.
Max had already dropped his gaze again, half-expecting silence to swallow everything. But then—
"…No."
Her voice. Soft. Cracked around the edges.
"I never wanted you to take the mantle."
Max's head snapped up.
"What…?"
His voice was barely a whisper.
She didn't look at him. Not yet.
"I thought I did," she continued, her hands now gripping the edge of the log. "For years. I trained you like my mother trained me. Pushed you. Prepared you."
Her voice trembled.
"But I was wrong."
Max stared at her, stunned. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, face half-shadowed by the morning light.
"Being a warrior sounds noble. Brave. People look up to us. They call it heroic."
Her shoulders sagged.
"But it's not just blood and glory. It's loss. It's fear. It's watching the people you love disappear one by one."
Max felt his chest tighten.
"…Mum—"
She shook her head.
"I don't want that for you," she said, voice shaking. "I don't want you to become like your father."
Her body stiffened as if the name itself was a wound reopening.
Max flinched.
"…What do you mean?"
She turned to him then. Her eyes glistened, lips trembling.
"I watched him fall apart. Slowly. Piece by piece. He gave everything… until there was nothing left."
She covered her face for a moment. A breath caught in her throat.
"I don't want to bury you too, Max."
Her voice cracked completely.
He froze.
"…Then who?"
"I'll give it to someone else," she whispered. "Anyone else. I don't care."
She looked at him now. Really looked.
"I just want time," she said. "Time with you."
Max blinked.
The world tilted.
"Mum…"
His voice was shaking now.
"What do you mean… 'time'?"
She smiled gently.
That tired kind of smile. The kind meant to soften a blow that was already falling.
"I don't have much left."
Max stared.
No words came.
"I'm sick, love," she said quietly. "And it's getting worse."
She reached up. Brushed the hair away from his face. Her fingers trembled.
"I wanted to tell you on your birthday. Because… I need you to know how proud I already am."
A pause.
"And how much I love you."
Then the tears fell.
From both of them.