Chapter 1

My mother cried and told me.

She said the caregiver would tie her to the wheelchair and starve her every day after I left for work.

I thought it was ridiculous.

An eighty-year-old woman with advanced Alzheimer's—it was only normal for her to confuse reality with hallucinations.

Suppressing my impatience, I bought some fresh fruit for the caregiver to apologize for my mother's accusations, and even gave her a five-hundred-dollar raise.

But the next day, two deep purple bruise marks appeared on my mother’s wrists.

I assumed she had scratched herself. I didn’t believe her at all.

Until the third day, when the caregiver sent me a Snapchat video of my mother smiling and eating. Infuriated by my mother's "lies," I lost my temper and yelled at her:

"She takes such good care of you! How can you keep framing her?!"

Tears welled up in my mother’s cloudy eyes. Trembling, she repeated: "Ethan, it’s the truth..."

That night, I told the caregiver to give her an extra sleeping pill, just to keep her from making a scene in the middle of the night.

But as I turned off the lights and lay down, a chilling thought crawled into my mind:

Why did an eighty-year-old Alzheimer’s patient say the exact same sentence every single time she had a rare, lucid moment?

"Ethan, your mom slept so well last night. She didn't wake up once."

Helena came out of the kitchen holding a plate of pasta. She smiled at me, showing a row of neat, white teeth.

I stood in the entryway, changing my shoes, and didn't reply.

The thought from last night was still stuck in my throat like a fishbone—why did she always say the exact same thing when she was lucid?

But as the morning sun filtered in, my doubts evaporated like morning mist.

Helena placed the pasta in front of my mother. She bent down, her voice as soft as cotton:

"Sarah, time for breakfast. I added the seafood you like today."

My mother sat in her wheelchair, her head low, motionless.

I walked over and knelt down to look at her.

Seeing me, her lips trembled, but no sound came out.

"Mom, eat."

She lowered her head and reached her hand toward the bowl.

The bruises on her wrists were still there—two angry purple lines.

Helena noticed my gaze and sighed.

She pulled out her phone, swiped twice, and showed me a video. In it, my mother was sitting in her wheelchair, frantically clawing at the safety straps, her face blank, as if she didn't know what she was doing.

"See? It’s just the disease. The doctor said that in the middle stages of Alzheimer's, patients develop these repetitive, compulsive behaviors."

I stared at the video twice and let out a sigh of relief.

Right. She did it to herself.

"Thank you, Helena. I know it’s hard work."

"It's not hard at all, Ethan. It's my job."

Before leaving, I bent down at the door to tie my sneakers.

Behind me, a tiny, raspy whisper floated over.

"Ethan..."

I turned around.

My mother had strained her neck to look at me, a spark of clarity piercing through her cloudy eyes.

"Don't... don't go..."

Helena immediately walked over, knelt beside her, and gently took her hand.

"Sarah, your boy has to go to work to make a living. Stay with me, okay? We can watch TV together."

My mother's hand flinched.

She pulled back quickly, as if she had touched a hot stove.

I noticed it. But it was only a fleeting second. The next moment, Helena gripped my mother’s hand firmly, turned to me, and smiled warmly.

"Go on, Ethan. Don't worry, I've got this."

The moment the door clicked shut, I thought I heard something crash inside.

But maybe it was just my imagination.

I couldn't focus at work that day. I revised my proposal three times, and it still felt wrong.

At lunch, Leo invited me out. Seeing my pale face, he asked what was wrong.

Leo was my childhood friend. He worked as an investigative journalist, and his job made him naturally paranoid.

I regretted telling him the story halfway through.

"Hold on," Leo put down his fork. "You're saying your mother says the exact same sentence every time she's lucid?"

"It's just Alzheimer's. It's normal for them to repeat things."

"Repeating past memories is normal. But repeating a description of what is currently happening to her—Ethan, that's a cry for help."

I got annoyed.

"Stop with the conspiracy theories, Leo. Helena is doing a great job. She sends me photos and videos daily. I see it with my own eyes."

Leo didn't say anything more, but the look in his eyes was deeply unsettling.

When I got home that evening, Helena was waiting by the door. She handed me a warm towel to wipe my hands.

"Ethan, Sarah was in a great mood today. She ate a whole bowl of chicken soup and watched some TV. I took a Snapchat video, let me show you—"

"No need."

I walked straight past her into my mother's room.

She was already lying down, the blanket pulled up to her chin, her eyes closed.

I bent down to tuck her in. The moment my hand brushed her arm, she flinched.

Her entire body shuddered, as if shocked by electricity.

I pulled back the blanket.

On her left arm was a dark bruise. It wasn't on her wrist, but on the inside of her upper arm—a place completely hidden by her sleeves.

It was a handprint.

Four finger-marks, clearly bruised from a violent squeeze.

"Helena."

"Yes, Ethan? What's wrong?"

"My mother's arm—"

"Oh, that," Helena walked in, looking at it calmly. "She wanted to use the restroom this afternoon. I was helping her walk, but her foot slipped. I had to grab her hard to keep her from falling. I guess I used too much force. I'll massage it for her later; it'll heal in no time."

As she spoke, she actually walked over and gently massaged my mother’s arm.

"Sarah, does it hurt? Let me rub it for you."

My mother remained silent.

But it wasn't the vacant silence of dementia. Her mouth was clamped shut, her jaw clenched tight, as if she were biting her tongue.

"See?" Helena sighed. "She's ignoring me again. Her mood changes ten times a day. I'm used to it."

I stared at the bruise, and then at Helena’s hand.

Her hands were large, with thick joints—the hands of someone who did heavy labor.

They matched the bruise perfectly.

"Ethan?"

I snapped out of it.

"It's nothing. Thank you, Helena. Get some rest."

Back in my room, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

At 1:00 AM, I got up to use the bathroom. Passing my mother's room, I noticed the door was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open a crack.

The nightlight was on. My mother wasn't asleep.

She was sitting up in bed, staring at the bruise on her left arm in the dim light.

She stared at it for a long, painful time.

Then, she pulled her sleeve down to cover it, turned her head into her pillow, and began to weep silently.

I stood outside the door, my feet glued to the floor.

The next morning, I found a scrap of paper under my mother's pillow.

On it was a single word, scribbled in shaky, agonizing handwriting.

"HURT."

I stood there holding the note, my mind going entirely blank.

Helena peered over my shoulder from behind.

"Oh, Sarah is scribbling again. She found a pen somewhere yesterday. I was looking for it everywhere. Ethan, we have to hide sharp objects. What if she pokes her own eye out?"

"I know."

I balled up the note in my hand and stuffed it into my pocket.

All morning, that single word burned against my thigh through my pants.

Hurt.

A woman who couldn't even remember her own son's name had forced her shaking hand to write just one word.

Why didn't she write anything else?