The alarm vibrated insistently, but I had already been awake long before it went off. Actually, maybe the right term is that I never really slept.
With my face buried in the pillow and my eyes dry from forcing myself to sleep, I felt the warmth of the sun seeping through the gaps in the light blue curtain, painting golden lines on the cramped, stuffy room. The fan spun, creaking with every turn, blowing a warm breeze that barely eased the heat of the old apartment.
I took a deep breath and slowly let the air out, trying to gather the strength to get out of bed. Getting up was never an easy task, but staying lying there felt like an even greater torture. My head ached and was filled with noises, like a dense fog made up of memories, worries, and the constant fear of not doing enough.
Finally, unable to bear the growing wave of irritation, I turned off the alarm and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my bare feet on the cold floor. Looking at the clock, I saw it was 6:12 a.m., and I knew that outside, traffic was beginning to come alive because the muffled noise of buses and motorcycles became noticeable after the alarm stopped.
My next step was to get up and peek into the silent hallway from my bedroom door. The apartment seemed asleep, but I knew my mother would already be awake.
And she was.
In the living room, I found her sitting in her old armchair, wearing a robe that had long lost its original color, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the turned-off television. Like a statue, rigid and silent.
I approached slowly, kneeling beside her and gently running my hand over her fragile knees.
"Good morning, Mom…", I murmured with a forced smile I had discovered months ago I was capable of.
My mother slowly turned her head, her eyes unfocused, as if looking right through me. It took a few seconds until she furrowed her brow and asked, in a weak voice:
"Who… who are you?"
My heart tightened, but I kept smiling.
"It's me, Mom. Helena."
The old woman studied me a little longer, tilting her head slightly, then went back to staring at the turned-off TV, plunging again into that silence which, over time, I had learned not to break anymore.
**
Making breakfast had become a silent ritual. I turned on the kettle, arranged the slices of bread, and warmed the milk. While doing this, I heard my mother's dragging footsteps in the hallway, sometimes going to the bathroom, sometimes stopping by the window and staring at the street as if trying, in vain, to recognize the neighborhood she once called home.
I served us both at the table, but, as always, I ended up eating alone. My mother fiddled with the bread with her fingers, pulling off crumbs, never really bringing anything to her mouth.
"It's tasty, Mom.", I tried to convince her, pushing the cup of tea toward her.
Unfortunately, the attempt proved fruitless. She wrinkled her nose and pushed the cup away, murmuring with a suspicious look:
"I don't like this… I don't want it…"
I nodded, used to it.
Getting up, I gathered the dishes and washed them quickly since I would soon have to leave for work.
Before leaving, I went to my mother one more time, who was now looking at an old photo on the living room cabinet: her and her daughter, many years ago, smiling in a park, hair blowing in the wind and eyes shining. I watched her run her fingers over the frame, as if touching something sacred.
"Who are they?", she asked, confused.
I had to take a deep breath to bear the sentence spoken innocently but that tore me up inside like a knife. Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I whispered:
"It's us, Mom…"
But she no longer heard me, lost again in a time only she inhabited.
**
The bakery where I worked was two blocks from the building. The route was always the same: go down the stairs of the old building, cross the street carefully—drivers usually didn't respect the crosswalk—and then cut through the sidewalk where the ipê trees were starting to lose their flowers.
The informal job at the corner bakery didn't pay much, but it was enough for the basic bills. I left every day at nine and returned shortly after two, running as fast as I could so I wouldn't leave my mother alone for too long.
At work, the days also repeated. I helped stock the shelves, packed bread, served coffee, and occasionally heard a joke or a silly pickup line from a regular customer. But today, I recognize I was quieter than usual, doing tasks mechanically, like someone dragging herself with almost no strength just to keep going.
"Are you okay, Helena?", asked Mrs. Marlene, the manager, a kind lady with dyed blonde hair.
I could only give a weak smile and nod.
"Just a little tired."
She looked at me with pity, as everyone always did, but didn't insist.
The shift ended shortly after two in the afternoon. I took the heavy bag of stale bread I got every time I was leaving, thanked, and said goodbye. The way back demanded more from me than the way there; the early afternoon heat made the air seem thicker and every step heavier.
I climbed the building stairs slowly, hearing my own shoes echoing in the silent hallway. When I opened the door, for a second, a familiar fear gripped me: what if my mother had tried to leave? What if she had fallen?
But it was just anticipation suffering. There she was, in the armchair, just like when I left, her gaze lost on the television turned on at such a low volume it was barely audible.
"Hi, Mom…", I whispered.
No answer.
I won't lie when I say that the lack of response hurt me more than the usual confused question.
In that moment, I thought about how much I missed the woman who raised me. I missed the stories, the scoldings, the tight hugs after bad days. But now only this confused, scared shadow remained, who sometimes called me "miss" or "ma'am," and who occasionally got irritated and shouted, accusing me of stealing her home.
With a corpse-like spirit, I dragged myself to the kitchen, preparing a simple lunch, nothing fancy. Leftover rice from yesterday, a fried egg, a quick salad. I placed it on a plate in front of her, but as usual, she ate little. I had to sit beside her, take a fork, and feed her patiently, in small spoonfuls.
After lunch came medicine time. There were so many pills I didn't even read the instructions anymore: two white pills, one blue, half a pink one. I put everything in a glass and gave it to her hand, which, as the only miracle of the day, she obediently swallowed.
**
The afternoon was filled with small tasks: washing clothes, folding sheets, organizing cupboards, and from time to time, checking where my mother was, always fearing to find her fallen or messing with something dangerous.
At five, I helped her take a bath, assisting with every movement, washing her gray hair gently, as I had done since the illness began to worsen.
"Is the water okay, Mom?"
The old woman just stared at me like she did in the morning, blinking slowly, then turned her face away, silent.
I carefully dried her body, dressed her in her nightgown, put on thick socks to keep the cold away, and settled her into the armchair, covering her with her favorite blanket. On the TV in the living room, without any streaming app, an old movie was playing—one of those she loved in her youth. I sat beside her, stroking her thin, fragile hair as the afternoon faded away.
**
When night fell, I was already exhausted.
I left the armchair, stretching my arms to try to relieve the tension. My mother seemed to be dozing off, wearing a serene expression, her hands folded on her lap.
"I'm going to take a shower…", I whispered, even though I knew she wouldn't answer.
Going to the bathroom, I took off my bakery uniform, which I would need to wash to wear again tomorrow, and stepped into the shower, letting the cold water run down my body, soothing the muscle aches and the anguish piled up from thoughts I could no longer organize.
Closing my eyes, I stayed there for long minutes while the steam fogged the mirror and the peeling tiles. It was hard not to think about the life I was living: a routine without breaks, without rest, without anyone to share the burden. Old friends had already taken other paths, and my father… well, my father was gone long ago, leaving no trace or longing.
Now, only she and I remained, bound to each other in a hazy waltz until one of us couldn't endure it anymore. Fearing I would collapse right there, I pushed the negative thoughts away and turned off the shower quickly.
**
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the old lady was waking up.
Slowly opening her eyes, she looked around as if wondering where she was. She stood up with difficulty and shuffled to the stove, dragging her feet on the floor.
She fiddled with some pots and opened drawers until she found the box of matches.
"I need to make dinner…", she murmured to herself, repeating a tender habit her body remembered, even if her mind no longer knew for whom.
She turned the gas knob, opening the valve with a faint click, and tried to strike a match. The flame failed, so she tried again, and again. Meanwhile, gas escaped silently and lethally, filling the air invisibly.
Finally, she managed to light the match.
And the explosion was swift: a blaze rose in seconds, reaching the window curtain and then the wooden cabinet.
**
In the bedroom, I was putting on pajamas when I smelled something strange. Inevitably, I furrowed my brow while wiping sweat from my forehead, starting to suspect something bad might have happened.
"Mom?", I called.
Worry hit me and I opened the door, facing thick, suffocating, dark smoke filling the hallway.
"Mom!", I shouted, running to the kitchen.
It didn't take long to find her standing by the burning stove, holding the box of matches. Her gaze was lost, as if it were all a distant scene to her.
I tried to approach her, but instinctively stepped back. The smoke burned my throat, triggering a dry cough, and my eyes started to sting, watering uncontrollably.
"Mom, get out of there!", I shouted hoarsely, but she didn't move.
The heat was unbearable. The flames licked the walls, crackling and consuming everything with terrifying speed.
I covered my face with my arm and took another step among the embers, but the air seemed to run out. I coughed hard, black saliva came out, and I staggered; my lungs invaded by that thick smoke. The world began to spin, sounds muffled and distant, as if I were submerged in heavy water.
"Mom… come…", I gasped, reaching out my hand.
When my knees gave out and my body collapsed to the kitchen floor, just a few meters from my mother who remained there, motionless, as the smoke devoured everything around, I felt my consciousness fading like a weak flame suffocated by the wind.
My chest heaved for air but found only smoke. Lying there with blurry vision, I had one last image: my mother, with that empty look, lost forever in a world where we no longer existed.
And then, everything went dark.
**
The next morning, neighbors whispered quietly, gathered on the sidewalk, staring at the partially charred building.
Firefighters called it a tragedy, a fatal accident.
The newspapers reported it as yet another domestic accident caused by negligence.
No one there would know about the silent routine, the years of care, the sleepless nights, the fears and small joys.
And so, mother and daughter departed together, perhaps to different destinies, leaving behind only a silent apartment and scorched walls.
End of the Prologue.