Ariel's feet didn't reach the floor.
They swung slightly from the hospital bed, small shoes hovering above the cold tiles as he sat beside his mother. His fingers were wrapped tightly around hers, afraid that if he let go—even for a second—she would disappear.
Her hand felt wrong.
Too light. Too cold.
"Mama?" he whispered.
Her eyes opened slowly, lashes trembling like they were too heavy to lift. When she saw him, she smiled. It was a weak smile, but it was still hers, and Ariel felt his chest loosen just a little.
"There you are," she murmured. Her voice sounded tired. Broken. Nothing like the voice that used to fill their tiny apartment with songs and laughter.
"I'm here," Ariel said quickly. "I didn't go. I promised."
She squeezed his fingers—or tried to. The effort made her wince, and Ariel's throat tightened.
"You've been very brave," she said.
He shook his head hard. "I don't want to be brave. I want you to come home."
The machines beside her hummed and beeped, sharp and steady. Ariel hated the sound. It felt like something counting down.
His mother's gaze softened, drifting over his face like she was memorizing him. His dark hair. His too-thin arms. The way his eyes always filled too easily with tears.
"Do you remember the song we wrote?" she asked.
Ariel nodded. Of course he did. They had written it together on the back of an old notebook, sitting on the floor while rain tapped against the window. She had laughed when he messed up the words and kissed his forehead, calling him her little star.
"Sing it for me," she said.
His chest hurt.
"I don't want to," he whispered. "You sing it."
She smiled again, sadder this time. "Mama's too tired."
Ariel swallowed. His voice shook when he began, thin and uneven, but he sang anyway. He sang the song about the sky and the moon and a boy who would grow up to shine brighter than both.
Halfway through, his voice broke.
Tears slipped down his face, blurring her outline. He wiped them away angrily with his sleeve and kept going, forcing the words out because stopping felt like something terrible.
When he finished, the room felt wrong. Too quiet.
"Mama?" he asked again.
She didn't answer.
Her eyes were open, but they weren't really looking at him anymore. Her hand was completely still in his.
"No," Ariel whispered. "No, no, no—Mama, you have to answer me."
The machine let out a long, piercing sound.
Doctors rushed in. Someone pulled Ariel back. He fought, crying out, reaching for her hand until it slipped from his grasp.
"I didn't finish the song!" he screamed. "I didn't finish it!"
But no one listened.
Later, much later, Ariel would remember the way the room smelled. The way the light hurt his eyes. The way the world kept moving even though his had stopped.
That night, Ariel Scout learned something he would never forget.
Songs could die.
And so could the people who taught you how to sing.
Ariel jolts awake with a sharp breath, like he's been pulled out of deep water.
His heart is pounding—too fast, too loud—each beat echoing in his ears. Sweat clings to his skin, soaking the thin fabric of his shirt, the sheets twisted around his legs like restraints. For a moment, he doesn't know where he is. The dream still has him. The smell of antiseptic. The hum of machines. His mother's hand in his.
Cold.
The room is dark. Empty.
Moonlight slips in through the narrow gap between the curtains, painting the walls in pale blue shadows. The heater is broken again. The air bites at his bare arms, but Ariel doesn't move to cover himself. He just sits there, chest rising and falling unevenly, waiting for the ache to pass.
It never does.
His fingers curl into the sheets as his breathing slowly steadies. His throat burns. His eyes sting. He blinks hard, but the tears spill anyway—hot and silent, sliding down his temples and into his hair.
She never comes back.
Not in dreams. Not in signs. Not in whispers.
Not since that night.
Ever since his mother died, she has never visited him again. No warm smile. No gentle voice. No reassurance that she's watching over him. The only time she ever appeared was when she was dying—fragile and fading, asking him to sing.
That's all he gets.
Death, frozen in memory.
Ariel presses a hand to his chest, right over his heart, as if he can calm it by force. It hurts in a dull, familiar way. Like grief never finished unpacking and decided to stay.
"I'm still here," he whispers into the darkness.
The words feel stupid the moment they leave his mouth.
The room doesn't answer.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cold floor. The shock grounds him, just a little. His hands tremble as he drags them over his face, wiping away tears he's too tired to fight.
He wonders—sometimes—if she stayed away because seeing him like this would hurt too much.
Or worse.
If she doesn't recognize him anymore.
Ariel exhales slowly and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, head bowed. The silence presses in around him, thick and heavy, wrapping itself around his shoulders like a familiar weight.
He doesn't cry loudly. He never does.
Instead, he sits in the dark, drenched in sweat and memory, holding the ghost of a song he never finished—and loving a woman who never came back to say goodbye.