The drive to her mother’s apartment was short. Far too short.

  Amelia was afraid of seeing her mother. She’s been sure Maya had been hiding things from her for years, and found it hard to believe that Julia knew nothing about what Maya so carefully avoided saying.

  She stepped out of the car hesitantly, parked on a brand-new lot in front of the building where she had spent her entire childhood. The renovated fa?ade looked surprisingly inviting. She took it as a good sign, though some invisible force still held her back from going inside.

  She pulled out her suitcases and stopped for a moment, staring at the light glowing in the second-floor window — her old room. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  A cold gust swept across the pavement. She shivered.

  The darkness had followed her.

  The street lamps flickered, their light growing weaker by the second — illumination that failed to truly brighten anything. Fear overpowered vague premonitions. She hurried toward the entrance.

  To her surprise, the stairwell had been renovated too — clean, fresh, scented with a floral cleaning agent.

  The old, dried-out wooden door to the apartment didn’t match the modern railings or freshly finished walls at all.

  The first lie revealed itself.

  Nearly a year earlier, Amelia had sent her mother a substantial sum of money for renovating the small apartment. She had asked more than once whether anything had been done.

  “Yes, sweetheart. The men came to check the door just yesterday.”

  That had been seven months ago.

  So where was the new door?

  Old PVC tiles lay hidden beneath what Amelia assumed was recently bought linoleum. Crooked walls. An outdated hallway unit straight from another era. Memories of the dramas that had unfolded within these walls rushed back, hitting her like the stench of disinfectant.

  Her heart slowed. Her breath grew heavy.

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds and pushed the thoughts away. When the noise inside her head finally faded, she was able to look at the familiar space without seeing the past — or an uncertain future.

  “Mom? Are you here?” she called, slipping off her shoes.

  A silver-haired head appeared in the doorway to the small living room. Her lips were smiling, but her eyes were, as always, sad — and this time oddly tired.

  “I didn’t hear you come in. I was reading,” Julia said with disarming honesty, stepping forward to hug her daughter.

  The embrace — brief as a camera flash, as it had been for years — wasn’t enough this time. Still, Amelia didn’t dare hold her mother longer, afraid of raising unnecessary concern.

  “I expected you earlier. Dinner’s gone cold. Shall I reheat it?”

  “Please.”

  She dragged the heavy suitcases into her old bedroom — unchanged, of course. The same crumbling wall unit. The old Singer sewing machine inherited from her great-grandmother, now serving mostly as a desk. Even the curtains were the same.

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  Guilt tightened in Amelia’s chest. She had left her mother alone — and clearly, she shouldn’t have. Anyone else would have renovated long ago. With the money Amelia had sent, they might have bought a new place entirely.

  Julia had chosen instead to keep breathing in the stale, toxic air of the past.

  The real shock came in the bathroom. Fixtures untouched for years, coated in limescale. Tiles still clinging to the walls, but the grout crumbling away. Everything was spotless — her mother had always been obsessive about cleanliness — yet so worn down by time it felt almost derelict.

  Amelia had planned to wait until morning to bring up the renovation.

  She didn’t.

  “So when are you finally going to fix this place?” she asked, stepping into the kitchen, which cried out for mercy just as loudly as the bathroom. “Mom. Why didn’t you take care of it?”

  “You think it’s that simple?” Julia replied defensively. “You have to move the furniture, pack everything, find somewhere to live and wash in the meantime.”

  “I’ll ask for the hundredth time. Did you even see the transfer?”

  “Oh, leave me alone.”

  “I thought so.”

  Julia stormed out of the kitchen. Amelia followed and wrapped her arms around her mother from behind.

  “I’ll handle it,” she whispered, kissing her cheek.

  “You came here to rest. You’re not renovating my apartment.”

  “Would you rather buy a new one? Maybe something closer to the hospital?”

  “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “Why not? If you’d seen the transfer, I’d probably be visiting you in a different place right now.”

  Julia turned pale. “How much money did you send me?”

  “Just Enough.”

  Amelia understood the disbelief. Her mother had always barely made ends meet. Counting every coin was normal. Money like this was abstract to her. Besides, Julia had no idea what apartments cost these days — her imagination couldn’t match reality.

  “Sit down, Mom,” Amelia said, serving herself chicken and salad. “How are you? You look exhausted.”

  “Same old, sweetheart. Same job. I just wish I weren’t getting older,” Julia said with a faint smile. “Does it taste okay?”

  “As always.” Amelia rested her hand gently on her mother’s thigh. “I missed your cooking.”

  “It’s just chicken.”

  “But it’s yours.”

  They talked about work — safely neutral ground. Julia had been a nurse at the county hospital since graduating. Amelia admired her perseverance. Her father had disappeared the moment the pregnancy became known. Julia had raised her alone, helped in the early years by Amelia’s great-grandmother — the woman who had left them this small apartment. Without her, Julia and her newborn would have ended up on the street. Her own parents had disowned her entirely.

  “And your health?” Amelia asked softly. “Did you get your test results?”

  Julia was silent for a long time.

  Amelia studied her closely. The freshly cut hair — too drastic to be accidental. New wrinkles. A greyish tone to her skin. Dark patches. Five years had changed her deeply.

  “Yes. Perfect,” Julia said at last. “Apparently I just need rest.”

  Amelia hoped it was true. She knew her mother had been unwell for some time, but distance made intervention impossible. Julia was stubborn — she had to come to decisions on her own.

  Amelia looked around the living room once more. She wouldn’t push tonight. She’d find an interior designer herself. Maybe even plan a short trip during the renovation — somewhere neutral, where they could breathe.

  “I’ll take care of you now,” Amelia said, kissing her mother again.

  When she stood to clear the dishes, Julia stopped her and pulled her into an embrace.

  “I missed this,” she whispered.

  They sat in silence for a long time, until exhaustion finally claimed them both.

  As Amelia drifted off, worry lingered — about her mother, about this apartment, about everything left unsaid.

  She felt it clearly now.

  Staying here would be a challenge.

  She would not leave this place unchanged.

  Not her mother.

  Not herself.

  She had come back thinking she was in control—only to realize she was not. Not really.