After Mortis finished, he changed into the fresh clothes and stepped out.
Malachai was already asleep.
Makes sense, Mortis thought. He must be exhausted too.
Quietly, he lay down on his mattress and closed his eyes.
Sleep came quickly.
He was home again.
The house was the same.
He was still on the floor—
…but this time, his hands were stretched toward the door, as if trying to grasp something just out of reach.
The lights were on now.
The television played softly in the background—his mother's favorite songs from the 90s.
The kitchen was alive with movement.
Mortis blinked, shaking himself out of the haze, and slowly walked toward it.
She was there.
His mother stood at the stove, cooking. Her back faced him, long black hair falling neatly down her shoulders. She wore her favorite sky-blue apron.
She had always loved blue.
She turned as she heard him.
"You're up?" she smiled warmly. "You looked tired, so I let you sleep."
Mortis said nothing.
He looked down.
Panda slippers.
Rabbit-patterned pajamas.
He was small again.
Seven years old.
"Is something wrong?" she asked softly, stepping closer. Her hand came up to rest gently on his cheek. "Did something happen?"
Mortis looked into her eyes.
Warm. Brown. Just like his—
…but kinder.
He shook his head.
She smiled and ruffled his hair. "Go sit. Dinner's almost ready."
Then, with a playful glint in her eye—
"I made your favorite. Spaghetti."
Mortis nodded and walked to the table.
He sat down quietly, listening to her hum as she cooked.
The table was covered in crayons and drawings.
A panda.
A rabbit.
And one of him… and her.
She came out carrying two plates, setting one in front of him before sitting across the table.
"How was your day at school?" she asked.
Mortis hesitated. He didn't even remember what school had been like back then.
"It was… good."
"Really?" she smiled. "What happened?"
He shrugged. "The usual."
She rested her head on her hand, twirling spaghetti with her fork. "Well, mine was terrible. Jared is such a—"
She went on, complaining about her coworker.
Mortis didn't respond.
He just watched her.
As if she might disappear the moment he looked away.
Finally, she frowned.
"Why aren't you eating?"
Mortis picked up his fork slowly, twirling the spaghetti.
Can you even taste food in a dream?
He brought it to his mouth.
For a moment—
Nothing.
And then—
Tears spilled down his face.
It tastes the same.
His mother froze.
"Oh, baby—what's wrong?" She rushed to his side, pulling him into her arms. "Did something happen at school? Were they mean to you again?"
Her hair fell around him like a curtain, shielding him from everything else.
That's right.
He had hated school.
The whispers. The laughter.
No father.
Mortis broke.
He sobbed—loud, uncontrollable, raw.
He didn't care that he was seventeen.
Didn't care about anything.
He just cried.
"I knew it," she muttered, anger rising in her voice as she held him tighter. "Tomorrow I'm going to your school. I'll talk to your teacher."
That only made him cry harder.
"It's alright," she whispered, rocking him gently. "It's alright. Mommy will fix it."
I miss you.
A quiet sniffle echoed from the corner of the room.
Mortis stiffened.
Slowly, he turned.
A man stood there.
Tall. Lean.
Clad in old-fashioned golden armor, a blazing sun engraved across his chest.
A scar cut down the right side of his face.
His long golden hair fell over his shoulders—
but his eyes…
were black.
Tears streamed down his face.
His lips moved silently.
Mortis watched, frozen, as he formed the words:
You've returned, my Lord.
You're back.