Evil within - Part 3

 He entered his room and closed the door gently—not to shut her out, but to keep his emotions from spilling over. The quiet inside the room felt different from the outside. This was the silence he usually loved… but today it felt heavy. Suffocating.

He dropped his sling bag on the floor and sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, face in his palms.
Everything hit him at once.

The long walk.
The scorching heat.
The interview disaster.
The disappointment in himself.
The fear of failing again.

He let out a long breath, the kind that made his chest feel hollow. He wished he could hide inside himself, disappear for a while. Life felt too loud even in silence.

Outside, his mother moved quietly, not wanting to disturb him but unable to settle. She opened the kitchen cupboard, closed it, then opened it again without reason. She paced a little. She waited, listening for any sign from his room.

After a few minutes, she couldn’t resist. She walked to his door. She didn’t knock. She just placed her hand softly on the wood, as if that alone could reach him.

Inside, he lay down slowly, curling up on one side. His eyes stung, not from tears, but from exhaustion. His body felt drained. His mind felt bruised.

He wasn’t crying.
But he wasn’t okay either.

A mother senses things without being told.

She walked back to the kitchen and started preparing something light—upma, his favourite comfort food. She worked quietly, with small prayers whispered in between.

“Let him get good news soon…”
“Give him strength…”
“Don’t test him more, God… please.”

By the time the food was ready, she checked the clock. Almost an hour had passed.

She went back to his door and knocked gently this time.

“Kanna… you want to eat something? I made upma for you. Just a little, come.”

Inside, he heard her voice—soft, concerned, steady. The kind of voice that could lift anyone from the deepest pit.

He wiped his face, breathed out, and got up slowly. He opened the door.

She looked at him with the same love she had carried since he was a child.

“Tired?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

She didn’t say anything else. She just guided him to the kitchen, placed the plate in front of him, and sat beside him like she used to when he was a little boy.

“Eat slowly,” she said, brushing his hair gently with her fingers.

That moment—her presence, her concern, her touch—felt like medicine. Stronger than anything else in the world.

He took a bite.
Warm. Soft. Familiar.
The kind of food that wrapped comfort around the heart.

She watched him, not rushing, not questioning further. Just being there.

And for the first time since morning, he felt a little lighter.

Not cured.
Not confident.
But supported.
Loved.
Not alone.

Sometimes, that was enough to survive another day.