“Mm… Mom.”
Flora said it again, her voice a little clearer this time, and heavier.
“Flo… you…”
Ilya couldn’t finish her sentence, her mouth seizing up like it had gone mute. Suddenly, her left hand gripped the edge of the table beside her so hard the wooden surface nearly splintered.
Flora didn’t know what emotion that was, but she could feel fear radiating from it. Yes, fear. But this fear was different from when she first met Ilya. This time, it was overwhelmingly intense.
“I… ya… Mother… you…”
Flora had no idea what to say. Her mind was consumed by dread, and her right hand clenched the white bedsheet, twisting it into a knot.
Ilya stayed silent, head lowered, left hand gripping the table as if it were growing tighter. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she looked like she was in pain.
Then, suddenly, Ilya’s hand went slack, like all the strength had drained out of it, her four fingers hanging limply over the table edge. She lifted her head and looked at Flora’s anxious face.
“Thank you… Flora. But… don’t call me that anymore.”
Ilya’s voice was weak, drained of energy, laced with regret, sorrow, and self-reproach. As if trying to flee from something, she turned her head away.
Flora had first been startled by Ilya’s terrifying expression, and now by this utterly dejected one.
But the impulse inside her—the urge to comfort someone sad, to comfort her own mother—forced her out of bed quickly. She hurried to Ilya’s side.
She took Ilya’s right hand, leaned forward, and spoke in a rushed tone.
“What’s wrong… Mother?”
Ilya glanced at Flora’s eyes, then looked away, speaking softly to the floor.
“What’s wrong, Mother?… Just leave that title for the person it should belong to. Call me what you used to… I… I don’t deserve it.”
Flora’s body jolted as if struck by lightning.
‘What?’
‘Ilya said… she doesn’t deserve it?’
‘What does that mean… Why would she say that?’
No matter the situation or context, Flora had never once heard that word. She had never heard the phrase “don’t deserve it” from Ilya’s lips.
Flora tightened her grip on Ilya’s hand. She was worried and afraid. Why was Ilya doing this?
“Mother… Why would you say that?”
Ilya remained silent, offering no answer.
“Mother, please… say something.”
“There’s nothing to say. I just don’t deserve it. Enough. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Pretend it never happened. We’re here to have fun.”
Ilya spoke quickly, then stood up, forcing Flora’s hand off her, and walked toward the bathroom.
Flora stood frozen, completely lost. She had only wanted to know what it felt like to call her “Mom,” maybe to make Ilya happy. How had it turned into this?
Halfway there, Ilya glanced back. Her gaze fell on the ring on Flora’s finger. Then she turned around, entered the bathroom, and closed the door that connected to the room.
Flora stood there, unmoving.
She didn’t know how long she had been standing there. Maybe seconds, maybe a long time. The measure of time had blurred the moment that door shut, like something had stirred it up, making the lines impossible to read.
No sound came from the bathroom. No water, no footsteps, nothing at all. Just silence.
Flora stood in place, her right hand still in the position where Ilya had let go, fingers slightly curled, suspended in the air. The warmth of Ilya’s fingers still lingered there, cool, slowly fading away.
She slowly pulled her hand back, letting it fall to her side.
Then she looked down at her hand.
The ring was still there, sitting quietly on her finger, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
She stared at the ring for a while, her mind blank, unable to think of anything.
‘What just happened?’
She forced herself to question it. But the question hit a wall, dissipating without an answer.
All she knew was that she had called her “Mom,” that she had only wanted to try the word she had never said before, that she had only wanted to make Ilya happy.
‘How did it go so wrong…’
She didn’t continue that thought. Or rather, she didn’t dare to.
Flora slowly walked back to the bed and sat down on the edge. The mattress dipped slightly, letting out a soft, muffled sound. She sat there, back straight, hands folded on her knees.
Her gaze fixed on the bathroom door.
The door was closed. A wooden door, ordinary, no different from any other inn door in this town.
After some time, the bathroom was still silent. She stared at the wood grain, one minute, two minutes, then who knows how long.
Flora’s hand moved, her fingertips lightly rubbing her skirt.
She suddenly thought, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have called her that.’
Once that thought surfaced, it couldn’t be pushed away.
She shouldn’t have called her that.
Ilya had never told her to call her that. From the very beginning, it had been “Mother”—that formal, distant, safe term. Even now, when she told her to call her “Mother,” Ilya had never said, “You can call me Mom,” never given any hint.
Flora had just wanted to try it herself, wanted to know what it felt like to say that word out loud, wanted Ilya to hear it.
And the result?
Flora’s fingers clenched tighter, the tips turning white from the force, but she didn’t let go.
That eternally calm, cold mother who could handle anything had, just moments ago, had eyes full of things she couldn’t understand: shock, bewilderment, joy.
But none of that was the scariest part. The scariest part was the look that followed. In that look was something she knew all too well—fear.
She had seen Ilya create fear. The first time, when that pressure fell on her, she had felt that fear like a hand pressing on the back of her neck. That was fear directed outward, pressing down on others.
But this time was different.
This time, Ilya’s fear was inward, turned toward herself. It was something inside her that had cracked open, spilling out.
Flora didn’t know what that was.
She only knew that her call of “Mom” had drawn that thing out.
At that thought, Flora felt like a needle was pressing against her skin. Not too painful, but it was there, persistent and real.
Suddenly, a very faint sound of water came from the bathroom.
Flora’s body tensed for a moment, her eyes fixed on the door.
But nothing happened. The water stopped, and silence returned.
Flora kept staring at the door.
Her mind was in chaos. She thought about what to say when Ilya came out, whether she should apologize, and then what she should apologize for—for saying that word?
But was saying that word wrong?
She didn’t know.
She had just suddenly wanted to say it.
More water sounds came from the bathroom, a little louder this time, like a faucet being turned on, water rushing over something.
Then the water stopped. And then another long silence.
Then, finally, the door opened.
Ilya walked out.
Her hair was a little wetter than when she had gone in, a few strands sticking to her temples, water droplets slowly trickling down from the ends. Her face was as calm and cold as usual, unreadable.
But Flora saw her eyes.
They were slightly red, a faint hint of red that you wouldn’t notice unless you looked closely.
Ilya walked out, scanned the room, her gaze stopping on Flora for a moment before moving away. Without a word, she went to her side of the room and sat down.
Her posture was the same as always, back straight, movements graceful.
But Flora noticed that her hand pressing against the bed’s edge was tighter than usual.
Neither of them said anything. The room was dead silent.
Ilya didn’t look at her. She sat there, head slightly lowered, staring at the floor in front of her.
Flora opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but the words got stuck in her throat, unable to come out.
***
After a long time, maybe thirty seconds, maybe a minute.
Ilya spoke.
Her voice was so soft, as if spoken by someone who had exhausted all their strength.
“Go to sleep.”
Just those two words.
Then she lay down, turning onto her side, her back to Flora. She pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. Her hair spread across the pillow, damp, glistening faintly in the light.
Flora was still sitting on the edge of the bed, watching that back.
She wanted to say something. Wanted to say sorry, wanted to ask if she was okay, wanted to ask what had just happened.
But she couldn’t.
For some reason, looking at that back, she just couldn’t say anything.
So she just sat there, staring at the figure turned away from her.
Flora’s fingers moved, touching the ring on her hand.
The sensation was cool, familiar.
She glanced down at it, then lifted her head to look at that back again.
“Mother.”
She called out softly.
The back didn’t move.
Flora waited a few seconds.
Then she changed her clothes, lay down, and pulled the blanket over herself.
She didn’t turn off the light. She turned onto her side, facing Ilya’s direction. Ilya was still facing away from her, motionless.
Flora watched that back for a long time.
The light outlined Ilya’s silhouette—the line of her shoulders, the curve of her hair, the shape of the blanket rising over her body—everything was clear.
After another long while, Flora didn’t know when she started to get sleepy. Her awareness grew hazy, bit by bit. She tried to keep her eyes open a few times, but every time she opened them, all she saw was that motionless back.
The last time she opened her eyes, she thought she heard a sound.
Like “I’m sorry”?
She wasn’t sure.
She didn’t know if she had actually heard it, maybe a dream, maybe just her imagination.
She wanted to open her eyes to confirm, but her eyelids were too heavy, too heavy to lift.
Then she sank into the darkness.
The room still had its light on.
A shadow trembled, just once.