The faint chorus of crickets faded beneath the hush of dawn.
A soft breeze stirred the treetops, rustling through the autumn leaves above like whispers in a cathedral. The scent of wet moss and old bark filled the air, earthy and clean, clinging to Max's skin as he stepped forward.
It was early. Too early.
The forest was still wrapped in a sleepy silence, except for the dull crunch of his boots pressing into damp soil. His breath left his lips in delicate clouds, curling in the cold. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, still groggy from being pulled from sleep not long ago.
His mother had woken him. No teasing, no silly faces, no humming a random lullaby tune like she usually did. Just a quiet knock on his door, followed by a single, firm sentence
"Come to the woods. Now."
Max hadn't dared to question her.
She was usually… light. Playful. A child at heart, even when training him. She would laugh when he fell during sparring, ruffle his hair when he sulked, and offer him sweet berries in exchange for one more set of drills.
But not today.
Today, her eyes had looked distant. Not cold, but serious—like someone standing at the edge of something they couldn't see beyond.
He adjusted the scarf around his neck, tightening it slightly as the air grew cooler with each step deeper into the trees.
"Why does it feel so heavy today?"
" Why does it feel like everything's about to change?"
The path curved slightly, and there she was.
Sitting alone on a fallen log, her back straight, her hands folded on her lap. A stream of golden morning light broke through the canopy above her, catching in her hair and glinting off the steel ring she always wore on her thumb.
Max slowed down.
"She's waiting… for something. Or maybe… for me to understand something?"
He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.
Today was 26th October. His birthday.
"Eighteen."
The number felt far too big for him, too full of expectations. He still felt like a boy sometimes—clutching onto dreams, sneaking sweets late at night, pretending the world could wait for him.
But the world wasn't waiting. Not anymore.
"I don't want to grow up yet…"
"I'm not ready to be whatever it is you see in me, Mum."
"Can't I stay like this, just a little longer?"
His steps slowed again as he drew closer. The soft sound of leaves brushing beneath his boots filled the quiet.
His mother didn't speak. She only looked up at him, a small, knowing smile tugging at the edge of her lips.
And somehow, that silence—so full, so heavy—spoke louder than words ever could.
———
Max stood still for a moment, the morning chill brushing against his cheeks as he watched her. The golden light filtered through the canopy, illuminating the strands of her blonde hair that fell messily around her shoulders. She hadn't moved an inch since he arrived—just sat there on the log, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
He hesitated, then stepped forward, clearing his throat quietly.
"Mum… what's wrong?"
His voice was soft—too soft—but it still seemed to cut through the stillness like a stone thrown into water.
She looked up.
Her gaze met his, and for a brief second, she looked like herself again—those warm eyes full of mischief and gentle chaos. But it didn't last. The mask slipped. Her expression faltered.
Max caught it. He always did.
She blinked, her lips parting slightly, but no words came out. Her shoulders stiffened. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her trousers as she turned away slightly, brows furrowing in deep thought.
"She's trying to tell me something… but she's scared. No—she's not scared of me. She's scared for me, isn't she?"
"Mum?" he prompted again, this time stepping a little closer.
Her mouth opened—then closed. A broken sound escaped, half a breath, half a word.
"I… I…" she stammered, her voice cracking like twigs underfoot. "It's not… I mean, it's not easy to—"
She stopped.
And sighed.
It was long. Heavy. The kind of sigh that seemed to carry years within it. She turned her face away from him, hiding the slight tremble in her lips, the way her chest rose too quickly and fell too slowly.
She's holding something back. Whatever it is… it's hurting her. She's always been so strong. But even strong people shake when they're close to breaking, don't they?
Max glanced at the log beside her, then gently shifted his footing.
"Can I sit next to you?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper now.
She turned to him again. This time, her eyes softened, and a flicker of her usual self returned. She forced a crooked smile onto her face, the corners twitching just a little too deliberately.
"Of course you can, dummy," she said, chuckling under her breath, her tone exaggeratedly playful. "I don't bite. Well—only sometimes."
Max smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
He lowered himself beside her, the wood cool and a little damp beneath him. Their shoulders brushed lightly. Neither said a word.
The silence grew between them—not awkward, but dense. Like the quiet before a storm, or the stillness of breath before a truth was spoken.
"What's she not telling me?"
"Whatever it is… I want to be ready. But I don't know if I am."
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
"Please, Mum. Just tell me."
———
The forest hummed with life.
Birds sang in scattered intervals, their melodies fluttering through the morning air like paper cranes on a breeze. Some chirped high and fast, others low and melodic, weaving a soft chorus that wrapped itself gently around the trees. The leaves rustled above them, shaken by the occasional gust, their whispers dancing between the branches.
Max sat with his mother on the old fallen log, the bark rough beneath them, cool with lingering dew. The quiet between them was not uncomfortable—it was full. Shared. Like a cup of tea neither of them was quite ready to put down.
He tilted his head, listening.
There, faintly—click. Clack.
He blinked.
Again—click… clack… click.
It echoed lightly, almost hidden among the birdsong.
"That sound," Max muttered, eyes narrowing as he peered into the treeline. "That's…"
He didn't finish.
His mother chuckled under her breath, lips curving into a soft, nostalgic smile. "The parrots," she said, voice low and warm. "They're still at it."
He turned to her, surprised.
"They remembered?" he asked.
"Of course they did," she replied, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "They've always been nosy things. Mimicking everything we used to do. The swords, our voices, even your pitiful groans when you got hit."
He flushed slightly, looking away.
A faint breeze ruffled his hair.
"It's strange… hearing it again. As if the forest itself remembers those mornings. That old rhythm of wood against wood. It used to be so normal… now it feels like a memory wrapped in moss."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, gaze distant now.
"…Thirteen years," she murmured. "Since we started. You were so small back then. I had to tie your wrists to the hilt so you wouldn't drop the sword."
Her tone softened.
"I miss those days sometimes."
Max looked at her, studying the expression on her face. It was wistful, but also tinged with something deeper—an ache she wouldn't name.
She hides it well. The weariness. The guilt. The longing. I've only just started to notice it. But it's always been there, hasn't it?
He sat a little straighter.
"…Thanks, Mum," he said, quietly. "I know you were always busy. With the war… the missions… everything. But you still came home. You still trained me. You never forgot me."
His mother didn't speak for a long while.
But her eyes glistened as she stared into the trees.
"He's grown up, she thought. Even with everything I've missed… even with the parts of me I couldn't give… he still became this. My boy."
She cleared her throat gently.
"I'm proud of you, you know," she whispered. "I don't say it often enough. But I am."
Max swallowed hard.
The parrots clicked again in the distance—click, clack, click. Like echoes of the past trying to find their place in the present.
He smiled.
And for once, the silence between them said everything.
———
Max took a slow breath, his fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers. The wind stirred the leaves around them, and the distant call of a parrot echoed faintly, like a memory trying to speak.
He turned to his mother, lips parting—then closing again.
His throat tightened.
He swallowed.
"Mum," he began, voice shaky, barely louder than the breeze, "is it… is it time? For me to… to take up your mantle?"
The words trembled on his tongue. Even saying them felt like dragging a stone uphill.
She turned her head slightly, brows lifting—but she didn't answer. Not yet.
Max didn't wait.
His chest rose and fell with growing urgency, like a tide trying to hold itself back.
"I… I'm not ready," he confessed, voice cracking. "I know I've trained, I've worked hard, I've done everything you and Dad wanted me to do. But… I'm still not ready to let go of who I was."
He turned his face away, his voice starting to spill freely now, untamed.
"My whole life—it's been hanging by this one thread. Just one. It's thin, but it's all I've ever known. And that thread… it's built from my childhood. From the stories you told me. The games in the garden. The way you used to mess up my hair and pretend it made me stronger."
His hands gripped tighter, trembling.
"If I let go of that… it's like cutting away the last piece of me. I won't know who I am anymore."
His eyes burned, but he blinked the sting away.
"I want to protect everyone, sure. I want to be strong like you. Like Dad. But… I didn't train because I loved fighting, Mum. I trained because I wanted you to be proud of me."
His shoulders slumped.
"That's the truth. I just wanted you to look at me the way you used to, when I stood up after falling, or when I got it right on the third try. That… that meant everything to me."
Silence.
He drew in a shuddered breath.
"…I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know it's selfish. I know I'm being childish. But I can't lie about how I feel anymore."
His voice faded into the rustling of leaves. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
His mother sat still beside him, staring at the ground, eyes wide and unblinking.
She wasn't frowning. Not even close.
But something in her expression had softened, like a weight had been lifted from a place she'd kept hidden for too long.
He's scared, she thought. He's still just a boy. And yet… he's braver than he knows.
She didn't speak.
But she didn't need to.