Inside, sitting on a pile of old blankets, was his mother. Dark circles under her eyes, swollen fingers, a torn sweater. Next to her — a bowl with leftover porridge, covered in mold. The smell of dampness and cold hit him in the face.

When she saw her son, the mother flinched.

“Son… you… weren’t supposed to come for another three days…”

“Mom… why are you here?” his voice cracked.

She lowered her eyes and whispered:

“Because this way is better… for everyone…”