The flicker of hope that Lyna's condition might be improving was swiftly extinguished the following day as she regressed back to her weakened state. Amukelo's heart sank as he watched his mother, once the pillar of their small family, struggle with her health. With a heavy heart, he administered the herbs once more, his voice gentle yet tinged with a firm insistence. "Mom, please, don't do anything even if you feel better. Rest is crucial for you." Lyna, seeing the worry etched deep in her son's face, nodded weakly and complied, "Okay, Amu."
Returning to the field, Amukelo found himself distracted, the tasks at hand feeling trivial compared to the weight of his mother's illness. Late fall was upon them, and the work in the fields was dwindling, giving him more time to worry about their diminishing savings and the approaching cold months. Determined to keep his mother as comfortable as possible, he used most of their remaining money to buy extra blankets, fearing that the ones they had wouldn't suffice if the winter turned harsh.
Amukelo also began to eat less, rationing their food to ensure that Lyna could eat whatever she might want or need without concern. He meticulously prepared their food supplies for the winter, his actions marked by a quiet desperation to maintain some semblance of stability.
As winter enveloped their village in its cold embrace, Amukelo found himself withdrawing from the world outside, focusing all his attention and care on Lyna. He was her constant companion, reading the signs of any discomfort or need she might have before she even had to speak. Lyna's condition stabilized somewhat with his care, and Amukelo's presence seemed to provide her with a sense of peace.
In the quiet moments when Lyna slept, Amukelo sought solace in his swordsmanship training. The physical exertion was both a distraction and a way to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Yet, the solitude of the practice only reminded him of the burdens he carried alone.
One particularly cold evening, as the wind howled outside their modest home, Lyna, wrapped in her new blankets, looked up at Amukelo with a tired but fond smile. "It might be my last winter, Amu," she said softly, a statement that seemed to hover in the air like a frost.
Amukelo quickly shook his head, a pang of fear gripping his heart. "Mom, don't talk like that. I'm sure you will live through many more winters," he replied, his voice strained with the effort to sound confident.
Lyna's smile widened a little, sadness and love mingling in her eyes. "I love you, Amu," she murmured, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
Wanting to distract her from such morbid thoughts, Amukelo began to regale her with tales of the adventures he dreamed of, of places beyond their village and feats of bravery and exploration. Lyna listened, her smile lingering, though her eyes occasionally clouded with the unspoken knowledge of her own frailty.
That night, after Lyna had drifted into a fitful sleep, Amukelo retired to the next room. Alone with his thoughts, the dam holding back his emotions finally broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks, warm and relentless. "Huh?" he muttered to himself in surprise as he tried to wipe them away, only for them to be replenished as quickly as they were removed.
Surrendering to his grief, Amukelo slumped into the corner of the room, his body racked with sobs. "Mikal, Jarek, if only you were here for her... and for me," he whispered into the quiet room, his voice carrying a mix of longing and despair. The burden of his responsibilities, the fear of his mother's mortality, and the isolation of his struggle converged, overwhelming him with a profound sense of vulnerability and sorrow.
The cold grip of winter held the village tightly, and inside their modest home, Amukelo and Lyna faced each day with a quiet resilience. Amukelo took care of all the household chores, ensuring his mother had everything she needed while she battled her illness. When she was awake, he was her steadfast companion, filling their time together with light conversation and silent support. And when she slept, which was most of the day, he used those precious moments to maintain his physical strength and skill, practicing his swordsmanship diligently in a separate room.
Despite the harsh winter, there were hopeful signs that Lyna might see the season through, which lifted Amukelo's spirits, feeding his hope that spring would bring a resurgence of health for his mother. But this fragile optimism was shattered one stormy day, with fierce winds howling outside, burying the village under a thick blanket of snow. Inside, the atmosphere was even graver.
Amukelo sat by his mother's bed, holding her hand tightly. She looked so pale, so fragile, that it scared him more than anything. Her breaths came slow and shallow.
"Amu…" she said, her voice faint. He had to lean closer to hear her. "I think… this might be my last day."
Amukelo shook his head quickly, his grip tightening on her hand. "No, Mom. Don't say that," he pleaded. "You're going to get better. Spring is coming soon. You'll see. Everything will get better."
Lyna's lips curved into a weak smile, but she shook her head slightly. "I don't think so, my dear," she said softly. "My time is coming to an end."
Tears welled up in Amukelo's eyes, but he blinked them back, refusing to believe it. "You can't leave," he said, his voice shaking. "I still need you, Mom."
She reached up with trembling fingers and brushed his cheek, her touch gentle. "You'll always have me, Amu," she said. "Even if I'm not here. I'll always be with you."
He shook his head again, his voice breaking. "How? How can you be with me if you're gone?"
Lyna's smile grew a little stronger, though her voice stayed faint. "I'll be with you in your heart," she said. "And God will be with you too. He'll give you strength, Amu. Even when things feel impossible, He'll carry you through."
Amukelo looked at her, tears spilling down his face. "No Mom. If... If I lose you, I will have nothing. How could I live without you?"
She squeezed his hand weakly. "You're stronger than you think," she said. "Strength doesn't mean never feeling sad or scared. It means getting back up, even when it's hard. And you won't have to do it alone. God will always be there for you. He will bring better days. You just have to sustain the storm."
He wiped his tears with his sleeve, even though it still didn't feel real. "I don't want you to go," he whispered. "Please don't leave."
Her eyes softened, full of love. "I don't want to leave you either," she said. "But this isn't goodbye. One day, we'll see each other again. Until then, promise me you'll live. Don't let grief stop you. Go on adventures. Be kind to others, even when it's hard. That's how you'll honor me."
He sniffled, nodding again. "I promise, Mom."
She gave him a tired smile. "Good," she said. "Let me pray for you, my sweet boy."
Amukelo nodded, lowering his head as her voice, weak but steady, filled the room.
"Lord, I leave my son in Your hands. Give him the strength to face the hard days, and the courage to follow the path You have for him. Help him see the beauty in the world, even when it's hard to find. Protect his heart, guide his steps, and fill his life with hope. And when his time comes, let him join me in Your arms..."
Her voice faded at the end, as her eyes closed when the last word left her lips. Amukelo's heart raced. "Mom?" he whispered. "Mom, please…"
Her hand grew still in his. "Mom!" he cried, shaking her gently. "No, please don't go. Please…"
But there was no response. The room fell into a profound silence, broken only by the soft sound of his weeping. Amukelo sat there, lost in a sea of grief, staring at his mother's peaceful face. The world outside faded to nothingness; the storm, the cold, and the passage of time all became distant and irrelevant. In that moment, there was only the profound pain of loss, the finality of goodbye.
As hours slipped by, Amukelo remained by her side, his mind replaying every moment they had shared, every story she had loved, every smile they had exchanged. The promises he had made to her echoed in his heart—a vow to live a life full of adventure and kindness, to honor her memory by embracing the world with the strength and courage she knew he possessed.