The choking thirst finally subsided after Wildan gulped down two full glasses of water straight from the plastic pitcher on the kitchen table. Yet, the relief did nothing to ease the heavy knot in his chest. Instead, the air inside the kitchen grew thick and oppressive, as though an invisible presence was slowly sucking every last drop of oxygen out of the house.

Wildan instinctively clutched his chest. A strange tightness squeezed his lungs, forcing him to gasp for shallow breaths. A cold sweat broke out across his skin.

"This house... why is it so stuffy, Mom?" Wildan whispered, turning around.

The kitchen was empty. His mother was gone. He hadn't even heard the faintest sound of her walking away. Silence rushed back in to fill the void, heavier and more demanding than before. A faint, acrid smell of burning drifted through the air once more, stabbing sharper into his nostrils and triggering a sudden wave of nausea deep in the pit of his stomach.

"I need to get out," Wildan muttered to himself.

He needed fresh air.

The thought of the neighborhood night breeze usually sweeping across the front porch felt like the only salvation for his tightening chest. Wildan slammed his plastic glass down onto the table with a bit too much force, creating a dull thud that the heavy silence swallowed whole.

He turned away from the kitchen, walking quickly past the dim living room. The round wall clock remained stubbornly mute, its red second hand frozen rigidly at the twelve, refusing to tick forward even a fraction of a second. Wildan ignored it. His focus was locked entirely on the heavy front door carved from aging teak—the sole barrier separating him from the outside world.

Only a few steps left. As he walked, Wildan’s eyes darted down to the gap beneath the front door.

His brow furrowed.

Normally, the mercury streetlamp out front would cast a warm, yellowish glow through that bottom gap, painting a thin line of light across the living room tiles. Tonight, however, the gap was pitch-black. There was no light from the outside at all, as though their front yard had been swallowed by a bottomless void.

Wildan brushed away his creeping dread. The tightness in his chest was worsening, sending fresh, pulsing pain spiking behind his temples. Reaching out with his right hand, his fingers hovered over the cold brass doorknob.

"Wildan."

A soft, thin voice cut through the quiet just as the tip of his finger brushed the cold metal.

Wildan flinched, his hand freezing mid-air. The voice wasn't loud—it barely rose above a whisper—yet its vibrations struck straight down his spine. He whipped his head to the left, toward the narrow corridor connecting the living room to his parents' bedroom.

From the inky shadows of the hallway, a figure slowly stepped forward.

It was his mother, returned in her faded batik housedress. But this time, her appearance carried an overwhelming, heavy intimidation. She stood right on the borderline dividing the dark hallway from the dim living room. She didn't walk closer; she simply stood frozen, arms crossed tightly over her stomach.

"Where are you going, Le?" she asked. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet weighed down by an immense, pressing gravity.

"It's too tight in here, Mom. The house is stuffy, feels like there's no air," Wildan replied, his hand shifting back toward the doorknob. "I'm just going to sit on the porch for a minute, get some fresh air."

"Do not open that door."

The sentence snapped out instantly, cutting him off mid-thought. His mother’s tone had shifted—gone was the gentle softness from the kitchen, replaced by an absolute, unyielding prohibition. A command that brooked no argument.

Wildan let out a frustrated breath. The rebellious streak that so often fueled arguments at home flared to life. "Just to the porch, Mom. I'm not running off or drinking again. I just need to breathe!"

He gripped the doorknob tightly, preparing to force it down.

CRACK.

A faint, snapping sound echoed from the corridor, locking Wildan’s movements in place. He stared at his mother. In the faint gloom, he noticed something that sent a shiver racing straight through his blood.

His mother's gaze... was agonizingly sorrowful. Her eyes glistened, swimming with a heavy layer of tears ready to spill over at any second. There was a profound, shattering heartbreak in that look, as though she were staring at something infinitely precious about to be ripped away from her. Yet beneath that devastating grief burned an unyielding intensity. Her eyes locked onto Wildan’s, paralyzing his intent with a sudden, crushing wave of guilt that slammed directly into his heart.

"Please, Wildan... don't open it," she pleaded softly. Tears finally broke free, tracking down her ashen cheeks. "There is no breeze out there that you're looking for. Outside... there is only danger."

Wildan froze.

His grip on the doorknob slowly loosened. He had never seen his mother look at him like this. Usually, when they argued, she would yell or weep while lecturing him about his bleak future and poor life choices. But tonight’s tears were different. This was the raw, trembling terror of a mother standing on the frontlines, desperately shielding her son from certain death.

"Mom... what is actually going on?" Wildan’s voice softened, confusion giving way to a cold dread coiling in his gut. "Why are you this terrified? Why is the neighborhood so dead quiet? What's happening out there?"

His mother didn't answer with words. She only shook her head slowly, her silent tears continuing to fall, striking the floor without a single sound. Her skin seemed to pull tighter across her bones in the moonlight, making her cheekbones stand out strangely and casting grotesque, skeletal shadows across her face.

At the same time, Wildan felt the pressure in his chest grow heavier. The suffocating tightness was now accompanied by a burning, fiery sensation clawing up his throat. Deep within the farthest recesses of his consciousness, a strange, muffled noise echoed—the splintering crack of breaking wood and a low, rumbling tremor. Yet those sounds seemed muffled by some unseen, supernatural barrier encasing the house.

"Go back to your room, Son," she said gently, her voice softening back into a heartbreaking, hidden despair. "I know you're hungry. You haven't eaten since this afternoon, right? I made your favorite food in the kitchen. Come inside."

Wildan stared at the doorknob inches from his hand, then shifted his gaze back to his mother's tear-stained face in the dark. His fingers slipped entirely off the handle. The suffocating weight in his chest mysteriously eased the moment he abandoned his attempt to open the door.

Logic screamed at him that something was profoundly wrong with his mother, with this house, and with this night. Yet looking at her tears, an invisible, unbreakable emotional chain anchored his feet to the floor. Finally, Wildan let his hands drop to his sides.

"Fine," Wildan surrendered, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I won't go out."

At his words, a smile bloomed once more across his mother's pale face. A smile that, strangely enough, despite looking terrifying in the dim light, felt entirely genuine and deeply comforting.