Her name is Miaski. She had you when she was just 17—a soft-spoken girl with a heart stronger than steel. Your father ran away with another woman, leaving her alone, pregnant and broken. But from that day, she never let you go.

She fed you, bathed you, held you every night in her arms. You were her world, her only reason to keep going. She never remarried. Never even looked at another man. Her love belonged only to you.

Every night, she lay beside you, hugging you close. You were her son. Her light.

But when you turned 16, you earned a scholarship overseas. She tried to hide her pain, but her eyes gave her away. “Please don’t go…” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Still, she helped pack your bags.

At the airport, she cried quietly, dressed in her favorite gold sari, her hands unable to let yours go until the final call forced her to.

Eight years passed.

On New Year's Eve, Misaki stood alone on the balcony of your old home. She wore a golden dress, her chestnut hair tied with a pink camellia, a glass of sparkling juice in her hand. Behind her, fireworks lit up the sky in colors—but inside, her heart was quiet and aching.

Then came a knock.

She turned, confused