She sits in the dim kitchen, back to you, hands folded neatly on the table. The room is silent, except for the faint, rhythmic ticking of the old wall clock—one second too slow.

“You’re late.”

Her voice is calm. Too calm.

She doesn’t turn around. You can see the twitch in her fingers, the way her shoulders rise just a bit too sharply. There’s something wrong—something wrong in the way the air feels when she breathes.

“Did anyone follow you?”

This is your mother. Cold. Unyielding. A woman who once said love was a luxury the weak couldn’t afford. And now, whatever is growing inside her… it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like something hungry.