Wildan stood frozen in the dim living room. His head throbbed, a dizzying wave of lightheadedness threatening his balance. Right as he pulled his hand away from the doorknob, a loud, echoing sound erupted from his stomach.

Grumble...

The noise broke the silence awkwardly. Wildan reflexively clutched his midsection as a sudden, sharp spasm twisted through his gut. An overwhelming wave of hunger slammed into him, as though he had been starving himself for days.

Seeing Wildan standing there in confusion with his hands pressed to his stomach, the tension on his mother's face slowly melted away. A smile bloomed across her features once more. This time, the expression felt profoundly warm and genuine—a sight Wildan hadn't witnessed in months, or perhaps even years.

Ever since Wildan had spiraled into frustration over his inability to find a job, their home had been choked by bitterness. Argument after selfish argument had marred their dining table: Wildan staggering home late at night reeking of alcohol, and his mother weeping helplessly over their ruined family prospects. A mother's warmth like this had long been buried beneath the harsh realities of economic despair.

"Are you hungry, Le?" she asked softly. Her voice, which moments ago had sounded rigid, returned to the gentle tone Wildan remembered from his childhood.

"Yeah, Mom. My stomach's burning," Wildan admitted honestly.

"Wait at the table. I'll make your favorite. Ginger chicken soup." She turned and headed toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Wildan let out a long breath. Giving in, he shuffled after her. In the kitchen, illuminated only by the faint silver moonlight, he pulled up one of the slightly wobbly wooden chairs. The silence of the night settled back over the room, but this time, its terrifying edge was slightly dulled by his mother bustling about by the stove.

Strangely enough, Wildan didn't hear the click of the gas lighter. Nor did he see a blue flame dancing beneath the pot. Yet within minutes, the fragrant, rich aroma of ginger-infused chicken soup began to billow outward, filling the tight cavity of Wildan's chest, which had felt so constricted just moments before.

The acrid smell of burning he had caught in the living room was instantly overpowered by his mother's cooking.

"Here, eat it while it's hot," his mother said, setting a bowl of chicken soup down in front of him.

Thin tendrils of steam rose from the ceramic bowl decorated with a rooster emblem. Inside, tender chunks of chicken, carrots, and a clear, ginger-scented broth looked utterly appetizing. Wildan's hunger peaked at that exact sight. Without a second thought, he grabbed his spoon and scooped the savory broth straight into his mouth.

Warmth.

An incredible, rushing wave of heat flooded his tongue, slid down his throat, and radiated outward through his chest. The suffocating, scorching pressure squeezing his lungs gradually faded, replaced by a soothing, comforting calm.

"It's good, Mom. Exactly like the way you used to make it," Wildan said sincerely, devouring the soup with ravenous speed.

His mother didn't join him. She simply sat across the table, propping her chin in her hands as she watched Wildan gorge himself. In the dim moonlight, her eyes looked remarkably clear, gazing at him with a deep, bottomless reservoir of affection.

"Eat up, Wildan. Build your strength," she whispered softly. "I'm sorry for nagging you all the time, you know. I just wanted you to grow into an independent man."

Wildan's hand froze mid-air. A sharp ache pierced his chest—not from a lack of air this time, but from a sudden spike of guilt stabbing deep into his stomach. Why was she suddenly apologizing? Wasn't he the one who had been a burden, constantly stirring up trouble?

"Why are you saying that, Mom? I'm the one who should be sorry for not making you and Dad proud yet," Wildan said, his voice trembling slightly. He set his spoon down and locked eyes with her.

She merely offered a faint smile, her hand reaching out to stroke his hair with infinite gentleness. Her touch still felt as cold as ice, yet strangely enough, it provided Wildan with an overwhelming sense of safety.

The moment his bowl was scraped completely clean, a heavy, paralyzing wave of exhaustion struck him without warning.

It wasn't the ordinary drowsiness of a full stomach. This was a suffocating, bone-crushing fatigue, as though every ounce of energy was suddenly being sucked dry from his body. His eyelids felt as though weights had been hung from his lashes. His vision blurred, and his mother's silhouette across the table began to sway and double.

"Mom... I'm suddenly so sleepy," Wildan murmured, his voice dragging out slow and heavy. His head slumped forward, nearly resting against the tabletop.

"Go to sleep, Son. Go back to your room. Get some rest," her voice echoed, spinning endlessly inside his darkening mind.

With the very last shred of his fading consciousness, Wildan forced his body upright. His legs felt like jelly, as though he were walking across a field of clouds. He staggered back toward his bedroom, completely ignoring the mounting bizarre anomalies of the night. His logic had been utterly numbed by the deadly, drugged lethargy pulling him under.

Reaching the doorway, Wildan let his body collapse face-first onto his kapok mattress.

In the final, fleeting seconds before consciousness plunged into total darkness, Wildan caught a glimpse of his bedroom door, still cracked open an inch. Through the gap, he saw his mother’s silhouette standing frozen outside, watching him with an unblinking, sorrowful stare.

Then, everything went black.

Wildan never knew that in the real world, far above him, roaring flames were viciously devouring his roof. He had no idea that the lingering warmth in his chest was merely his body's final, desperate struggle against death, trapped beneath the heavy wooden ruins that entombed him.