Before the shouting.
Before the glass.
Before the dreams taught me how to bleed quietly —
There was only warmth.
Not the kind that burns.
The kind that hums gently, like soft light through paper walls.
That was Mother.
She used to hum when she cooked. A little off-key. A little tired.
But it was mine.
Every night, after Father left for "work," she would open a torn notebook and trace letters in the air.
"Say it with me," she whispered.
"Ah… buh… kuh…"
I'd nod. Repeat. Smile.
She'd tap my forehead with her finger and say,
"You're brighter than all the stars outside."
I used to believe that.
Mother smelled like rice powder and old cloth.
She laughed with her eyes more than her mouth.
When she cried, she did it behind closed doors.
But the wall was thin.
I always heard it.
And Father…
He wasn't always a stranger.
Sometimes he brought home sweets.
Sometimes he spun me in the air and shouted,
"My boy's gonna be king!"
But other times…
He came home too quiet.
Shoes dragging. Pockets empty.
Breath sour with things I didn't yet know how to name.
Those nights, the air changed.
Mother would hold my hand a little tighter.
And tell me,
"Sleep before the moon catches us."
She never explained what that meant.
I don't think she wanted to.
One night, I remember watching them from behind the curtain.
Father sat at the table, counting coins.
Mother stood by the door, watching the clock.
Neither of them spoke.
The light buzzed above them, tired and flickering.
I wanted to say something. Anything.
But I didn't know how to fix a silence that heavy.
So I stayed behind the curtain, and I whispered to the shadows:
"Please. Don't break."
That was before I ever dreamed of broken crowns or gods that bled stars.
Before the man who didn't blink.
Before I understood that some futures are already woven into the seams of our skin.
But now, when I think back —
To the taste of warm milk.
To Mother's fingers brushing crumbs from my cheek.
To Father's wild, laughing eyes…
I don't just feel memory.
I feel warning.
A faint voice from the dreamworld murmuring:
"Even peace has roots in pain."
The first time I cried without knowing why,
Mother held me in the kitchen and said,
"You're just feeling too much at once, that's all."
She wasn't wrong.
I was always feeling something.
Even before I knew what the world was.
Even before the world knew what I was.