It was a dream.
A dream in which I was back home. The summer sun poured through the windows, my mother was making lunch, and my father, lounging in his chair, was reading the newspaper.
No... it wasn't a dream. It was a memory.
I was just a child then, too young to realize that this peaceful world would soon be gone.
"Sweetheart," my mother called. Her voice was warm, like freshly baked bread. "Come here. It's time you learned how to cook. My only wish is for you to grow up independent. Come on, don't be shy."
I pouted and ran over to her.
"But Mom!"
"Learn while I'm still here. When I'm gone, you'll have to do it all by yourself."
"But where would you go?"
She sighed and gently patted my head.
"Hm? Nowhere, silly. It's just an expression."
But I was already clinging to her apron, small fists tightening in its folds.
"Mom... I don't want you to leave. Don't go!"
She laughed, but there were tears trembling in the corners of her eyes.
