The door creaks open, and the streets' oppressive heat and clamour disappear. Inside our tiny home, the air feels more incredible, the distant noise outside softened by the thick stone walls. The weight of the city lifts with every step, the constant pressure of the streets falling away, like a heavy burden slowly lifted from my chest.
Beyond the doorway lies the world we’ve walked so many times—harsh and unforgiving—where every step forward feels like a battle against the chaos. The Ashes stretch endlessly, streets packed with weary souls, desperate faces, and makeshift shelters. It’s where survival depends on vigilance, keeping your head low and your wits sharper than the blades they carry. But here, inside our home, the weight feels lighter for a moment—because here, at least, we have something.
Mum exhales loudly, a soft but unmistakable release of tension—the kind only someone who’s been carrying the world can give. Once tense from the anxiety of the outside world, her shoulders drop, and she stands still for a moment—eyes closed, arms hanging loosely at her sides. She lets the stillness of our home embrace her as if she’s sinking into the comfort of this small, quiet space. The heat from outside, the harshness of the sun, vanishes entirely. The cacophony of the Ashes—the hustle, the chaos—fades into an unspoken peace.
I watch her, observing how she allows herself to shed the layers of her mask. For a moment, she’s not the hardened figure of survival; she’s something else. The rigid, stoic exterior that shields her from the violence of the streets and the world's cruelty is gone. She’s my mother in this place, who carried me through so much. Her breath evens out—a sigh of relief that fills the small space around us—and she turns to me, her eyes softer than I’ve seen in a long time. Her voice, ordinarily steady like the calm before the storm, softens and becomes lighter.
“Well, that was a walk, wasn’t it?” she says, her words playful, the day's tension almost slipping away. There’s a teasing note in her voice as if we had just returned from a light stroll instead of a trek through the scorching streets of the Ashes. She smiles—a warmth that’s unexpected in a place so bleak. “At least we’re inside now, hm? No more of that scorching heat for a while.”
Her voice, lighter and gentler than usual, fills the space between us like a soft balm. I feel the knot in my chest loosens. Her sudden shift—from the stoic figure holding the world's weight to this approachable, cheerful side—feels almost like a revelation. It’s a glimpse of the person she used to be before life forced her to put on her armour.
Standing in the doorway, I sense the change in her. It’s not just a change in her demeanour—I feel it, too. My shoulders, which had been tense since we left home to traverse the chaos of the streets, seemed to relax—if only slightly. The mask I wear—the hardened persona forged from my trials—feels less necessary here. The weight of it lessens in the warmth of my mother’s presence. In this space, I feel like I can be myself, if only for a short time. Here, in our home, I can drop my guard.
Mum notices the change in me, too. Her eyes flicker with understanding, a knowing that goes beyond words. She sees the walls I’ve built around myself, and for a moment, she lets me lower them.
“Well,” she continues, her tone shifting again—a little more earnest but still light, “how about we make something of this quiet, hm? Let’s clean up, get ready, and head to the flower shop. We’ll leave the world outside, just for a while.”
Her straightforward, unassuming words hold a quiet promise of something normal, untouched by the world’s cruelty. We could go to the flower shop, walk through vibrant colours, and forget the suffocating heat and the tension in the air—even if just for a little while. Full of warmth, her voice is a comfort in a way few things are.
The weight of the world pressing down on me through the sweltering heat outside seems lighter now. With her words, my tension eases, and my body unwinds from the constant strain of survival. In this moment, we’re allowed to be something more than just the products of the Ashes—more than mere survivors.
The flowers in our home—vibrant reds, yellows, and purples—seem out of place in the grim reality of the world outside. They’re like tiny fragments of beauty in a world that has long forgotten how to cherish it. Carefully placed in pots around the room, they flourish despite the harshness of the environment—a reminder of resilience—of life, colour, and warmth. In a world where so much has faded to grey and ash, these flowers prove that, even in the darkest places, beauty can still find a way to thrive.
I glance at them briefly, then look back at Mum. The warmth of our home and her demeanour's softness settle over me like a comforting blanket. The walls—though worn and chipped—are our walls. They’ve seen the passage of time and the world's erosion outside. But here, they hold onto the things that matter. The walls, some chipped, some revealing the stone beneath, show the scars of years—but these scars are not wounds. They are history, evidence that we’ve survived and continue to survive despite everything.
I glance over to the wall where a few framed pictures hang—faintly dusted with time, their colours slightly faded but still vivid enough to bring memories flooding back. Most are of moments we’ve shared—me as a baby, clinging to Mum, her tired but tender smile. Others show us from last year, standing in a small artificial meadow on the city's edge, flowers blooming around us. An older woman had been kind enough to take the picture, offering us a moment of beauty amidst the drudgery. I remember how Mum shifted slightly after we’d thanked her—her body language had changed instantly, subtly but telling. The gratitude had been evident in my voice, and my accent—so different from here—had given away where we came from.
The older lady must have caught on because her smile faltered briefly before she tucked the camera away, returning to her usual reserved kindness. Mum had spoken first, offering thanks with her usual grace, but I had followed up—my words unpolished, my voice sharper than hers. My tone, though careful, betrayed something more than what they were willing to let show. I’d caught the flicker of understanding in the older woman’s eyes.
But Mum hadn’t noticed. Her accent is smoother, a little more proper—closer to the speech of the nobles, but not so stuck-up. I never quite picked up on it as a child, always thinking of her as just Mum, plain and simple. It’s only now, looking at those pictures, that I realise how little I know about who she once was before this life. Before all of this.
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There’s something about these frames—each carefully placed, as though they’re the only remnants of a past we cling to. But in all the pictures, she’s always with me. Always by my side, smiling or laughing, but never alone. And I notice, as I study them, that there’s not a single one where she’s by herself—no picture of her when she was younger when life hadn’t yet hardened her features. No glimpse of who she once was. It strikes me, then, that perhaps she’s hidden that part of herself away—buried it under the weight of everything we've had to endure.
“Go on, get yourself changed,” Mother said gently, her voice carrying warmth and ease. “We’ve got a stop to make. You’ll want to be comfortable for a bit of walking.”
I nod in response, my movements quiet as I approach my small room. It isn’t much—just enough to house our meagre needs. The space is bare, and the walls are worn but sturdy. A bed sits in one corner, simple and unadorned—no frame, just a thin mattress on the wooden floor covered by a plain, faded blanket that’s been patched more than once.
Beside the bed stands a small, worn desk—almost empty. A few wooden containers hold scraps of cloth and a handful of small tools—bits and pieces kept from days of past work and repairs. There’s a single candle in a holder on the edge, leaning slightly as though barely used.
And in the corner, leaning slightly against the wall stands a full-body mirror—old but still functional, chipped at the edges but clear enough to reflect.
I walk over to it, my reflection flickering back at me. My eyes scan the face staring back—mine. I pause for a moment, taking in my appearance. I’ve grown taller since the last time I looked closely. My frame is lean but sturdy, and my features are defined by sharp cheekbones and a jawline that mirrors Mum’s.
My warm caramel-brown skin glows softly under the dim light like hers. The resemblance is undeniable—beauty carved into my face, my eyes sharp and striking. Hazel eyes, a shimmering shade that catches hints of gold and green, flicker in the light as I tilt my head. It’s a gaze that invites scrutiny, perhaps why others have been so quick to mistake me for a girl.
My long, dark hair falls in waves down my back, tied loosely in a bun at the nape of my neck. It hangs slightly below my shoulders; the strands are unkempt but manageable—evidence of long hours spent working, travelling, and surviving.
It’s not the first time someone’s mistaken me for a woman. Sometimes, it unnerves me—how strangers linger just a little too long, unsure of what they see. I can see why—my appearance seems delicate; my figure is soft but not frail, and my frame is lightweight and almost deceptively so. It’s a natural occurrence here in the Ashes, where assumptions about strength and survival come quickly and harshly.
I lower my gaze to the straightforward, earthy-toned shirt I wear—a lightweight, breathable fabric that allows easy movement, perfect for long travel days. The neckline has faint embroidery, patterns in ochre and deep reds—subtle but intricate. It fits comfortably against my shoulders, allowing me to move freely without restriction.
Over it, I reach for a standout piece—a lightweight vest, finely crafted with gold-coloured stitching along its edges. Delicate patterns of sunbursts and geometric swirls are stitched into the fabric, blending practicality with refinement. The vest is tailored slightly longer at the back, falling gracefully yet sturdy enough to offer protection from sudden gusts. A tiny metallic clasp secures it at the front, adding a subtle touch of elegance.
I glance down at my trousers—a neutral tan or slate grey, clean but durable, cropped just below my knees. Simple cloth belts tie around my waist, discreetly concealing a small hidden pocket—an essential, always close to hand. The hems are slightly rolled, worn yet purposeful, patched in small places at the knees—signs of wear from too many journeys.
I pause again, my fingers lingering on the cloth. This outfit speaks of necessity, practicality, and resilience—carefully crafted from what little we can afford. Yet, it carries slight hints of culture and care—a fusion of tradition and functionality that tells a story, even without words.
Around my neck, a simple leather cord holds a polished metallic charm—something scavenged but meaningful. On one wrist, thin bronze or brass bangles glimmer faintly, not flashy but well-worn, each piece telling of long travels and small victories. And on my thumb, a simple silver ring—something handed down from Mum, plain but comforting—is a faint emblem of our bond.
For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to look—to truly see—not just the reflection but everything it represents: who I am and who I am becoming.
I step out of my room, the cool air of the sitting room greeting me after the brief solitude. My eyes immediately catch Mum—there she is, tending to the plants by the window, her delicate fingers carefully misting the leaves with water. The soft light of the late afternoon filters through the window, casting a warm glow over her figure.
I notice she’s changed, too—a long, flowing sunflower-yellow dress drapes elegantly over her form. The fabric is light and airy, with subtle embroidery along the hem that catches the sunlight. The dress has a soft, feminine grace, but it’s practical enough for her to move freely as she works. The bright yellow hue brings warmth to her features, and the golden embroidery at the collar mirrors the warm tones of her skin, enhancing her natural beauty.
I watch for a moment, my gaze softening. There’s something different about her today—lighter, almost like she’s carrying less weight from the outside world. The dress's fabric moves with her as she shifts slightly, the hem swaying gently as she kneels beside a clay pot filled with vibrant pink blossoms. It’s a stark contrast to the usual, sombre attire she wears in the streets—now, she looks more radiant, more alive.
“You’re taking such good care of these plants,” I say quietly, my voice breaking the gentle stillness of the room. “They seem to thrive under your touch.”
Mum glances up, smiling softly, her eyes catching mine briefly. “They need it. Just like us, really—sometimes, we need a little care to bloom.” She stands slowly, her hands smoothing down the fabric of her dress, and looks at me with a teasing gleam.
I oversee her—there’s a warmth in her expression but something mischievous. She tilts her head slightly, the sunlight catching her dark hair, and she softly chuckles.
“Well, don’t you look like you’re ready for a bit of an outing yourself,” she teases, playfully gesturing to my outfit. “It’s almost as if we’re going on a date.” Her voice is light, teasing but affectionate, and she flashes me a playful smile.
My face immediately turns red—heat creeping up my neck as I shift awkwardly. “Mother—”
“Oh, come on,” she says with a soft laugh, stepping closer, reaching out to pinch my cheek gently between her fingers. “Don’t get shy on me now. You’re my handsome boy, after all.”
I stumble back slightly, the sudden affection catching me off guard. Before I can react, Mum steps forward, pulling me into a warm hug. The soft scent of something sweet and floral envelops me—something faint, delicate, yet unmistakably hers. It’s a subtle blend of jasmine and lavender, mingled with the warmth of something grounding, like sandalwood. It’s light and soothing, the fragrance that lingers long after she moves away.
Her arms wrap around me tightly, and I feel my resolve slip briefly. The embrace is so familiar and comforting—it reminds me that, despite everything, I still have someone who loves me deeply. Her touch is gentle and grounding, reassuring in the face of uncertainty. It reminds me that we are not alone, even amidst the bleakness.
And yet, even in this moment, I know it can’t last.
Soon, we’ll step out into the streets again—back into the chaos of the Ashes. The warmth of our home will fade, replaced by the blistering sun and the unforgiving glare of the streets. But here, at this moment, we’re safe.
For now.