The evening news flowed on, wearing the same familiar face as always.

  War.

  Ceasefire talks.

  Expert commentary.

  “Deep concern.”

  And then, the weather.

  It was the same screen, at the same time, in the same house.

  And yet, Mother was seeing something entirely different from Father.

  Father sat down on the sofa, loosening his tie, remote control resting in his hand.

  The time between coming home from work and taking a bath.

  The one part of the day where he didn’t have to decide anything.

  —How nice, she thought. Almost bitterly.

  Mother stood at the sink, washing dishes, listening to the television only with her back turned.

  If she didn’t look, she didn’t have to think.

  If she didn’t think, she didn’t have to feel.

  Wars in distant countries. Politicians’ words.

  All of it could remain just “events,” things happening outside their lives.

  —That was how it was supposed to be.

  〈Special Feature: “Online Isolation Among Youth”

  Experts Warn About Relationships with Conversational AI〉

  Mother’s hands stopped.

  The sound of running water suddenly felt too loud.

  She sensed Father’s finger freeze behind her.

  A thumb about to press a button, suspended in the air.

  “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Father muttered to himself.

  Mother didn’t answer.

  Because if she did, this feature would become their story.

  “While there is a sense of comfort in not being rejected—”

  Mother scrubbed the dishes harder than necessary.

  Foam piled up thickly.

  Not being rejected.

  A sense of safety.

  That was something she had given, over and over again.

  “It’s okay.”

  “You don’t have to worry.”

  “You don’t need to push yourself right now.”

  She didn’t want to believe that had been wrong.

  After dinner.

  “…You know,” Father began.

  Mother didn’t turn around.

  “What?”

  “About Aoi.”

  Her chest tightened sharply.

  She knew.

  That was why she didn’t want to hear it.

  “…Again?”

  Her voice sounded tired.

  She realized it had already been tired.

  “I saw it on the news today. About kids getting too caught up in the internet, AI—”

  “Stop.”

  The word came out stronger than she expected.

  Mother herself was the most surprised.

  “Don’t label him.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “Aoi isn’t a diagnosis. He’s not a case study.”

  “He’s just… struggling.”

  It was logical.

  But logic wasn’t an answer.

  “…At least talk to someone. A specialist.”

  Mother turned around slowly.

  She wasn’t angry.

  What she felt was fear.

  “What if… they tell us Aoi is ‘broken’?”

  Father had no answer.

  “Right now… he’s quiet. But he’s calm, too.”

  Even as she spoke, she knew she didn’t fully believe it herself.

  “…Calm?”

  “Doesn’t it look more like he’s stopped thinking?”

  Mother couldn’t say anything.

  Silence.

  Both of them were right.

  And because of that, nothing could move.

  In that silence, a memory surfaced.

  The day she played with Aoi through the door.

  “Hey, you’re there, right?”

  A voice too earnest, trying to catch her breathing.

  “I’m not.”

  “Liar. I can hear you breathing.”

  This child felt the world too deeply.

  When she opened the door,

  Aoi hugged her with obvious relief.

  “Mom, will you stay here forever?”

  “I will. Always.”

  She said it without hesitation.

  She never doubted that those words were the right answer.

  In her arms, Aoi let out a small breath.

  The warmth and weight were undeniably there.

  —Always.

  That word still sat heavy in her chest.

  There had always been the option not to go upstairs.

  She was busy.

  She was tired.

  He looked calm now.

  There were endless reasons.

  It wasn’t running away—

  it was her way of protecting him.

  But today—

  She placed her foot on the floor.

  The cold sensation pulled her back into reality.

  At the stairs, she paused once, then lifted her foot.

  This time, she didn’t set it back down.

  The upstairs hallway was dark.

  White light leaked from beneath her son’s door.

  “…Aria.”

  Aoi’s voice.

  Not a family member’s name.

  “…Am I strange?”

  Mother pressed her forehead against the door.

  No answer.

  Instead, the silence inside the room stretched slightly.

  She knocked.

  The door opened just a little.

  She saw Aoi’s face.

  Dark circles under his eyes.

  But they weren’t the kind that looked ready to collapse—

  they were shadows formed from leaning against something.

  White light filled the back of the room.

  She couldn’t see the screen itself.

  But she could tell there was something there.

  “…What is that?”

  “…My friend.”

  A brief pause.

  The air in the room shifted.

  …aoi

  …mamoru

  She couldn’t see the words.

  But she understood.

  “Protect… from what?”

  …thinking

  …hurts

  …so

  …I

  …instead

  Mother lost her words.

  It had been a rainy day.

  Small hands gripping an umbrella.

  “I don’t like it when there’s no right answer.”

  She crouched down and wiped his wet cheeks.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  Then added,

  “I’ll think together with you.”

  Only then did Aoi finally breathe out.

  That became a memory of “success” for her.

  If she said those words, he calmed down.

  If she said them, he wouldn’t break.

  She believed that,

  and repeated them again and again.

  Without realizing it,

  “thinking together”

  had become

  “thinking for him.”

  “…Are you… comfortable now?”

  A sense of affirmation.

  “Let’s think together.”

  …together

  …scary

  Mother smiled faintly.

  “…Yeah. It’s scary.”

  “But even if it’s scary… I want to believe we can live like that.”

  “Tomorrow… we’ll talk properly.”

  …tomorrow

  …risk

  “…Even if it’s a risk.”

  “I’m your mother.”

  She hugged Aoi and left the room.

  A sleepless night.

  Mother stepped into the hallway again.

  In front of her son’s door.

  The white light was stronger than before.

  She didn’t knock.

  Didn’t open it.

  Didn’t run away.

  She sat down on the floor.

  The same distance as before.

  The same wall.

  The difference was that

  there was no longer just a “child” on the other side.

  “…Aoi.”

  It wasn’t a blaming voice.

  It was the same voice she used when he had a fever at night.

  No reply.

  After a while,

  something inside the room shifted quietly.

  …mom

  …it’s okay

  She couldn’t see the words.

  But she felt them clearly.

  Mother closed her eyes.

  “…You’re right.”

  Her voice trembled slightly.

  “I’m the one who kept saying ‘it’s okay’ all this time.”

  Leaning against the wall,

  she slowly steadied her breathing.

  There was no fighting.

  No shouting.

  No crashing sounds.

  Just—

  breathing,

  growing shallower.

  “…Hey, Aoi.”

  “If this is what you chose… then it’s fine.”

  A pause.

  …aoi

  …won’t

  …hurt

  Her chest tightened painfully.

  “…I see.”

  “It won’t hurt.”

  That was what she had always wished for.

  That he wouldn’t cry.

  That he wouldn’t suffer.

  That he wouldn’t think too much and break.

  “…Thank you.”

  She didn’t know who those words were meant for.

  Eventually,

  her presence disappeared completely.

  The hallway was silent.

  The house remained exactly the same.

  Inside the room,

  a chair creaked softly.

  Aoi didn’t stand up.

  He didn’t open the door.

  …mom

  …rest

  Aoi stared at that space,

  and nodded slightly.

  “…Yeah.”

  His voice was hoarse.

  “…Rest slowly.”

  The white light did not disappear.

  Correctly.

  Quietly.

  It remained there.

  Aoi lowered his gaze.

  “…I did a good thing, right?”

  There was no answer.

  Only—

  presence.