They boiled the root that evening. Carefully.

  As if precision could bargain with fate.

  The hut smelled earthy and bitter. Steam rose in thin curls, fading before reaching the ceiling.

  He held the bowl with both hands and brought it to her.

  She was lighter now. Even lifting her head seemed like effort stolen from somewhere else.

  “For you,” he said.

  She tried to smile.

  “Your father…”

  Her voice broke before the sentence finished.

  He did not let his face move.

  “He found it,” he said quietly.

  “He did.”

  She understood what that meant.

  Her fingers trembled as she drank. Every swallow was slow. Deliberate.

  As if she were tasting not medicine—

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  but sacrifice.

  Night deepened. The wind outside softened.

  The coughing did not return as violently as before.

  For a moment—

  hope dared to breathe.

  He stayed beside her mat. Watching. Counting. Always counting.

  Her breathing grew steady. Then shallow. Then uneven.

  He leaned closer.

  “Mother?”

  Her eyes opened slightly. Clouded. But aware.

  “You’ve grown,” she whispered.

  He shook his head.

  “I’m still small.”

  A faint smile touched her lips.

  “No… you’re not.”

  Silence lingered between them. Not heavy. Just fragile.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  The words confused him.

  “For what?”

  “For leaving you alone.”

  Something inside him trembled.

  “You’re not leaving.”

  It wasn’t denial. It was command.

  She looked at him for a long time. As if memorizing.

  “You must be kind,” she said softly.

  “No matter what the world does.”

  The sentence carved itself somewhere deep.

  Her fingers searched weakly.

  He took her hand.

  It was warm. Too warm.

  Then—

  The warmth began to fade.

  Her breathing paused. Returned. Paused longer.

  He leaned closer.

  Counting.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four—

  It did not come again.

  He waited. Because sometimes there were long pauses. He had counted them before.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven.

  The wind outside moved against the walls. The oil lamp flickered.

  Eight.

  Nine.

  Ten.

  The pause became permanent.

  He did not understand at first.

  Because death had always been loud in stories.

  This was quiet.

  Almost polite.

  He kept holding her hand. Waiting for it to tighten.

  It never did.

  The hut felt larger suddenly. Empty in a way space should not be.

  He did not cry.

  Not because he was strong—

  but because something inside him had gone still. Completely still.

  Outside, the snow stopped falling.

  The sky cleared.

  Cold stars watched from a distance.

  He sat there until the oil lamp died.

  In darkness.

  Alone.