Nilem walked home from school. As always, it was a fifteen-minute walk. After passing through the school gate, he lifted his head, adjusted his long sleeves to cover his wrists, tried to smile, and set off. He was just 11 years old. His day had gone well; Hugo had only taken one of his two meager sandwiches without pushing him around this time. That was something to be grateful for.

  For the past few days, Hugo had been more lenient toward him, perhaps because the teacher had scolded him. But Nilem doubted it; she was the most oblivious person alive. Maybe some higher force had influenced Hugo's behavior. Honestly, Nilem didn't care. The result was all that mattered to him.

  Right, straight, right, then left. At the end of the last street, he pulled his keys from his oversized bag and inserted them into the lock. With a sharp creak, the door opened onto a short hallway leading to the kitchen. His room and his mother's room were on opposite ends, with the kitchen in between. The apartment was relatively small, forming a T-shape—small but sufficient for a family of two.

  The light switch crackled under Nilem's finger, and the bluish-white glow lit up the room. Outside, it had been dark for almost an hour; in December, the sun set early. While most people found this time of year dreary due to the lack of light, Nilem loved it. He felt at peace. These were the colors he liked; they mirrored his daily life. The blazing sun of June wasn't for him. In his mind, he called it a liar. The June sun is a liar; it doesn't reflect reality. It doesn't reflect his reality. When everything outside looks bright and sunny but inside it feels dark and bleak, it's just cynical, like a cruel joke aimed at him.

  With a sigh, he dropped his bag at his feet and sat on the nearest chair. He took off his shoes; his mother hated it when he dirtied the house. Nilem, who helped with the cleaning, agreed with her and always removed them willingly. He hadn't had the chance to go anywhere over the summer since his mother couldn't afford it, so he had spent the months in his room, staring at the ceiling. It had been a peculiar summer, but it hadn't seemed to bother him much.

  Once his shoes were neatly placed by the door, he opened the kitchen drawers to check if his mother had managed to do some shopping. It seemed she had—a loaf of sliced bread was in one of the drawers. He took out a single slice, not wanting to hear his mother complain about taking too much.

  He sat on a chair and began nibbling on his bread. The silence was broken only by the fridge's rhythmic hum, keeping time with Nilem's bites. The bluish-white light reflected off his smooth cheeks. He checked the time: 5:25 PM. He had two hours before his mother would come home from work. Until then, he was free. Taking his time, he savored his slice. Once he had swept the crumbs from the table into the trash, he grabbed his bag and headed to his room.

  He always delayed doing his homework. But today, feeling a rare burst of motivation, he sat on the edge of his bed and opened his agenda. Math exercises—easy enough.

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  Within half an hour, pencil raised, Nilem had finished them, still perched on the edge of his bed. He had gotten used to working there. Without a desk, he was usually forced to sit at the kitchen table for his homework. But for the past few weeks, Nilem had avoided lingering in the kitchen, avoiding being underfoot when his mother was home. Even in her absence, the habit remained.

  Before her arrival, his mother had asked him to boil water for pasta. She arrived moments later, just as the pasta was nearly cooked. Without a word, she slammed the door behind her, removed her scarf, and slumped wearily into a chair. She looked at her son, gave him a faint, toothless smile, and gestured toward the pot with a tilt of her head to silently ask if the pasta was done. Without speaking, Nilem lifted the lid, tasted the pasta, and drained it. Bringing the dish to the small table's center, he saw his mother lighting a cigarette. Lowering his head, he set the table, the sound of a match striking the box accompanying his movements.

  Once everything was set, he sat across from her. In a hoarse voice, she asked,

  - No oil?

  With one last effort, he placed the bottle beside her. Those were the only words exchanged during the meal. The fridge's hum accompanied them, now joined by the sound of two people chewing.

  After clearing the table, under his mother's detached gaze behind a cloud of smoke from her second cigarette, Nilem rolled up his sleeves to do the dishes. After a raspy cough, his mother said,

  - I'll do it.

  Without a word, Nilem thanked her with a nod and went straight to his room. He felt her gaze follow him until he closed the door behind him.

  He lay down on his bed without bothering to change into his pajamas and waited. That ceiling, with its stains, tiny cracks, and rough patches, was etched into his memory. He had created countless stories in his mind, even naming the details he observed. Entire families had formed under the power of his imagination. The Crack family, for instance, was always expanding its territory, slowly encroaching on the Stain family's space. He had spent months building countless tales.

  As he stared at the ceiling, what he had been waiting for finally happened. A few minutes later, he heard his mother get up, open a drawer, and return to the table. A popping sound echoed through the apartment as a bottle was uncorked, followed by the flow of liquid into a glass. She was drinking.

  At first, Nilem had confronted her about it, but she had scolded him in return, telling him to stop worrying so much and to mind his own business. He had noticed the change, though. By the third cigarette, he heard her crying. His heart clenched. Poor mother. This happened every night. Nilem didn't know where she found all those tears. He had cried too, but never as long or as often as she did.

  Nilem clenched his teeth. Even though it happened every evening, the weight in his chest never lightened. It seemed, like his mother's tears, that the heaviness would never go away.

  About an hour later, he heard her get up. Nilem tensed. The creak of the floorboards drew closer, passing near his door before retreating to the other side of the apartment, toward her bedroom. He relaxed, but the tension had given him a cramp. Gritting his teeth, he massaged the sore spot and waited for her to settle. He didn't dare make a sound.

  Once the apartment was silent again, he got up quietly, changed into his pajamas, and slipped under his thin blanket. He was often cold, but that was just how it was. Shivering, a small smile appeared on his cheeks—it had been a very good day.