The morning light was soft, pale gold spilling through the wide bay windows of the apartment, illuminating the polished floor and reflecting off the stainless steel appliances in the kitchen. Outside, the city was beginning to stir—silent hovercars glided along empty streets, their hum barely audible, while holographic billboards flickered to life, projecting ads for futuristic gadgets, fashion lines, and educational academies. Inside, however, the apartment was serene, the quiet broken only by the soft clatter of kitchen utensils and the faint murmur of a conversation carried over a phone line.
Mehrin moved around the kitchen with her usual composed grace. Her long skirt swayed with every step, the fabric catching the early light like liquid silk. She stirred a pot of oatmeal, occasionally sprinkling cinnamon over the top, and simultaneously held a sleek, high-tech phone to her ear. Her tone was light and relaxed, as though speaking to Ariana was part of her normal morning routine rather than a call with someone who could sometimes be fraught with tension.
"Yes, I just finished checking his timetable," Mehrin said, her voice calm and even. "He's ready for tomorrow. Everything's set."
There was a pause on the line. "That's good," Ariana replied, her voice warm but laced with concern. "I just hope he's… comfortable."
Mehrin smiled faintly, stirring the oatmeal again. "He's comfortable. I just think he's… well, moods change. You know teenagers."
The soft chime of the doorbell echoed through the apartment, slightly cutting into their conversation. Mehrin set the spoon down and walked to the door, her fingers brushing the sleek handle. She opened it, her face lighting up with a warm smile as she saw Owen standing there, his bag slung casually over one shoulder.
"Oh, you're here, my dear," she said, voice carrying a soft warmth.
Owen didn't respond. His face, usually expressive and easy to read, was unreadable this morning. There was a faint crease between his brows, and his eyes, though attentive, seemed distant. Without a word, he strode past Mehrin, moving straight to his room. His steps were firm, deliberate, almost like he had set a pace to keep his thoughts separate from hers.
Mehrin paused at the doorway, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second, but she did not stop him. Instead, she returned to the kitchen, picking up the conversation thread she had left dangling with Ariana.
"What happened?" Ariana asked, her tone curious.
"Nothing," Mehrin said lightly, stirring her coffee with one hand while holding the phone with the other. "Owen's mood just doesn't seem right."
There was a brief pause on the other end. "Maybe he's not feeling well," Ariana suggested.
"Could be," Mehrin said calmly. "He just came back from his father's house. Maybe he caught a cold on the way."
"Wait… Owen goes to Oliver's house?" Ariana asked, her voice tinged with surprise.
"Yes," Mehrin replied evenly. "I send him there myself. I let him go wherever he feels comfortable. After all, he is his father."
There was another pause. "Alright," Ariana said softly, her tone thoughtful, almost pensive.
Mehrin sighed, leaning against the counter and rubbing her temple lightly. "I don't know why, but every time he comes back from his father's place, he walks around with a long face. He seems… distant. Quiet. Thoughtful… or maybe just weighed down by something I don't see."
"Oh… so that's the reason," Ariana said after a moment. "Maybe someone there is influencing him against you."
Mehrin's eyes narrowed slightly, but her voice remained steady and firm. "No, that's not possible. We've been divorced for years now. Owen has grown up—he's turning sixteen this year. He's not a child anymore. He can think for himself. And his father has already remarried, so there's nothing there to sway him."
Ariana fell silent for a few seconds, perhaps pondering Mehrin's words. Then she changed the topic, her tone softening. "Anyway, leave it. I just wanted to make sure everything was fine. Sarah was telling me that tomorrow is the first day of school."
"Yes," Mehrin replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Owen finished all his preparations fifteen days ago. He wanted to be ready early."
There was a light laugh shared between them. "He's always been precise like that," Ariana said, her tone warm. "Just like you."
Mehrin chuckled softly. "Yes, perhaps a little too much sometimes."
The laughter faded, replaced by a comfortable silence. Mehrin returned to the counter, cutting fresh fruits for breakfast and carefully arranging them on a plate. Her movements were rhythmic, almost meditative, a contrast to the storm of thoughts she had just experienced about Owen's mood.
"I'll talk to you later," Mehrin said finally, glancing at her watch. "I need to step out for some work. Bye."
"Okay, bye," Ariana replied, and the line went silent.
Mehrin set the phone down, but her small smile gradually faded. Her eyes followed the hallway leading to Owen's room, thinking about the heavy mood he had carried through the front door. His shoulders had been slightly hunched, the casual pace he usually adopted replaced by a deliberate, almost mechanical stride. Even the flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he passed her had been absent.
She picked up a small tray and carried it toward his room, setting it gently on the side table outside the door. A steaming cup of coffee, a plate with some toast, and a neatly folded note reading "For when you're ready to talk or eat" rested on it. She hesitated for a moment, imagining him refusing it entirely, but left it there anyway. A mother's instinct often overruled logic.
Mehrin's thoughts drifted as she returned to the kitchen, resuming breakfast preparations for herself. She considered the path her son had taken recently—his trips to his father's house, the long hours spent in his room with digital lenses projecting sprawling futuristic landscapes of games and virtual arenas. Owen had always sought refuge in other worlds, especially when life outside felt too complicated. But this morning had been different. His detachment had been sharper, almost tangible.
Mehrin leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee, letting the silence of the apartment press in. The futuristic city outside continued its morning ritual, unaware of the tension and subtle undercurrents within this quiet, stylish home. She thought of Owen, remembering how much he had grown, how independent he had become over the years, and yet how he was still her child, still vulnerable in ways that no amount of maturity could erase.
She allowed herself a deep breath. Perhaps the mood would pass. Perhaps a day at school, the excitement of seeing friends, or simply the rhythm of daily life would shake him out of this quiet cloud. She hoped.
At the same time, she couldn't shake the memory of the subtle tension that always lingered after his visits to Oliver's house. Not because of anything overtly said or done by his father, but because of the invisible weight of family history. Divorce had left its marks, and though both parents had moved forward, Owen had been caught in the middle. A part of her always wondered if he carried those invisible burdens, even without knowing it consciously.
The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon and coffee now. Mehrin poured herself another cup, staring out the window at the city skyline. The morning sun had risen further, catching the chrome and glass of nearby buildings, bathing the streets in a soft amber glow. She felt a quiet determination. No matter what, she would be there for Owen, ready to guide, support, and, if necessary, confront the shadows that followed him from his father's house.
Her eyes drifted back to the hallway leading to Owen's room. The digital game's faint hum leaked from behind the closed door. She smiled slightly, a mixture of love and worry settling in her chest. Teenagers had moods, and moods had tempers, but no mood could erase the bond between a mother and her son. And while the first day of school was tomorrow, today would be spent quietly, giving him space but also preparing herself to listen if he chose to speak.
Mehrin took a deep breath, straightened her skirt, and carried the tray back to Owen's door one more time. The aroma of coffee mingled with the faint scent of baked bread, cinnamon, and her perfume, a small, tangible reminder of home. She left it there, hoping that when Owen was ready, he would see it—not as an intrusion, but as a quiet gesture of care.
Then she returned to the kitchen once more, the phone call with Ariana lingering in her mind. She knew that somewhere out there, people cared for Owen and had their opinions, but ultimately, it was her who knew him best. Her thoughts drifted to the future: school tomorrow, the rhythm of life returning, and the hope that her son would eventually lift the invisible weight that had shadowed him since his visit to his father's house.
As the city outside awoke fully, Mehrin stood in her kitchen, long skirt brushing the floor, hands wrapped around her coffee cup, and allowed herself a moment of quiet reflection. No matter what moods, challenges, or distractions arose, she was ready for Owen. She always had been—and always would be.