His rapid footsteps drew him closer to his home. Focused entirely on his hut, his eyes failed to register a strangeness in the withered apple tree.
Never before had he seen such a manifestation of brilliant colors; it was like seeing fireworks for the first time. He felt invaded by different thoughts trying to take over his mind, yet none of it paralyzed his movements.
The wooden fence was gone. Broken sticks that once formed it lay everywhere, thrown far and near, scattered randomly around the hut.
The enormous flame consuming the hut danced like the candle on those nights with his mother. The door had vanished, the kitchen to the side was completely destroyed, and the firewood was splintered into tiny pieces.
Almeida did not hesitate. His feet moving agilely, he didn't wonder if the fire would threaten his life. With a powerful leap, he crossed the line where the wooden fence used to be. His heart roared while his chaotic mind didn't analyze, but rather sent concise and precise orders, with only one objective: to save his mother.
The boy clenched his fists. His heart stopped for a moment, and he watched time pass in slow motion. Inside his home, he feared finding a terrifying scene.
But he didn't stop; on the contrary, he quickened his pace. He wasn't a masochist—no, he didn't like pain—and yet, he quickly walked through the doorway only to witness an incredible sight inside the hut.
The clay jugs neatly stacked on one side of the hut had disappeared, leaving behind an empty space. The only table was completely shattered, its pieces scattered all over the place. There was no trace of the bowl he used for dinner or breakfast.
Still, despite the chaos inside, a candle, whose base was a sort of square copper bowl with a handle—was lit, a familiar flame dancing upon it.
Almeida's eyes didn't linger on any of that. Instead, they focused on the empty room. There was no sign of his mother; only the two straw mattresses lay there on the dirt floor.
Almeida didn't stop, didn't say anything, didn't analyze anything. He threw himself into a frantic search. He ignored the empty area where the jugs used to be, stepped over the wooden pieces of the shattered table, and checked the corners where the two mattresses lay.
He moved his body, his hands, his feet, his entire being, driven by hope, overwhelming fear, and bravery despite it all.
He checked every corner, every spot. He hadn't found his mother at first glance, so his mind instinctively searched for a clue. If she had escaped, then he wanted to find out why.
If something had happened to his mother, he wanted to know the reason. If someone had kidnapped his mother, he wanted to find that person.
But fate was not on his side. The interior of the hut had been completely trashed by Almeida. The dust from the dirt kicked up by his frenzy clouded his vision, the straw mattresses torn apart, their insides scattered here and there.
The boy collapsed onto the dirt floor, head bowed. His muffled voice escaped occasionally in the form of sobs. His cheeks had been soaked in his tears for a long time, and it seemed they would never dry.
Trembling, Almeida brought down one of his hands to strike the dirt. He held his breath for a moment before violently vomiting a white liquid, inhaling and exhaling air like a tired dog.
"Bbzzrrpp. Lost? He's definitely broken. The mind seems to have lost most of its capacity to analyze. The subject's collapse is a matter of days. Why would Number 2 waste her vitality to help you? Stupidity."
"..."
Convulsing while supporting himself with his hands to keep from falling to the floor, Almeida lifted his head with difficulty. "What was that?" He narrowed his eyes. "I thought I heard a voice. Is it my imagination?" He raised his head higher, watching the fire begin to seep through the few holes formed in the roof.
"Is that you... Mom?" He seemed to smile; however, there was no answer.
"Bbzzrrpp. Ah? Can you hear me? Surprising. Despite so much stimulus, the subject still retains some of his analytical capacity. I must note this for future research."
Almeida's pupils, reflecting a bright yellow hue, lit up. Trembling, he stood up before speaking. "Is it... you... Mom?" Despite the rivers running down his cheeks, he smiled brightly. He let out a little laugh that sounded more like a lament before wiping away his tears with his hands.
"Mom is talking to me... Mom is with me... Is this her soul?" he muttered as his breathing calmed. He clenched a fist near his chest. "I don't know what you're trying to tell me, Mom, but... I will find you."
He clenched his fist so tightly that a bright red light seemed to emerge from between his fingers as his eyes sharpened, resembling the gaze of a tiger.
"Bbzzrrpp. It seems the subject has misunderstood me... It doesn't matter. After all, many resources have already been spent on you. Your chances of awakening are 5%. Number 2 was wrong; I don't know what she saw in you."
Almeida walked out of his hut, an expressionless look on his face. He walked with a firm, almost military stride as his breathing became increasingly powerful. He looked left and right with such speed that it should have snapped his neck.
However, no matter where he looked, there was no trace of his mother by the withered apple tree with strange ropes tied to its branches, nor on the scorched grass that painted the ground black as far as the eye could see.
"I..." He stopped. He turned around, watching his home in flames, then looked at a small building in the distance. The abandoned church, barely visible at this hour of the day as the sun was about to set, painted the world in a yellowish-red light.
He walked over to the apple tree and placed a hand on the trunk. He instinctively thought he would forget everything that had happened moments ago, which made him let out a harsh, rasping breath. "Forget it? How could I forget my mother?!!!" he screamed at the sensation.
He gritted his teeth but maintained his calm. Then he fixed his gaze on the strange ropes hanging from the apple tree. They were twine ropes as thick as his big toe, strangely dyed red, with bizarre tears here and there.
He grabbed one of those ropes—the shortest one. His fingers felt the rough texture for a moment before he placed the rope around his neck, his breathing now completely calm.
He felt the residual heat of the rope, clenched his hands, and closed his eyes, thinking of his mother.
Then, he tied a knot in the rope, improvising a necklace. He bit his tongue, his tense muscles beginning to itch, and with a harsh exhale, he finally opened his eyes, determined.
"Let it be a reminder then. I, Almeida, touching my necklace now, promise to find my mother, even if I have to wander the world a thousand times over... I," His eyes gleamed again mid-sentence. His heart shuddered with a particular ache, and he sobbed slightly before forcing himself to calm down.
"I will find you, Mom."