Nine years after my hands were burned into twisted, useless claws, I woke up in the dead of night from a throbbing, phantom ache.

That was when I heard my mother talking on the phone out in the living room. "Rita, you know it hasn't been easy," she murmured into the receiver. "Taking care of him all these years... a brilliant piano prodigy, reduced to this..." Then, she let out a low, soft chuckle. "Hard on me?" she continued, her voice devoid of warmth. "Do you have any idea how long I waited for that day?" Silence hung on the line. "His passport back then?

I hid it," my mother said flatly. "And that fire... I set it myself. I only meant for him to miss his flight.

Who knew the flames would spread so fast and ruin him like that?" A faint, horrified gasp echoed through the speaker. "His hands..." My mother paused for two seconds.

When she spoke again, her tone was ice. "It’s better this way. Broken hands mean he can’t play. He can’t go abroad. He can never leave me behind.

These past nine years, he’s needed me for everything—to eat, to dress.

Shouldn't he be grateful?" I lay frozen in bed, the agony in my mangled fingers searing through me as if the flames were licking my skin all over again.

I hadn't been trapped in that rotting apartment for nine years because of bad luck. My own flesh and blood had set the fire that incinerated my future.

In the pitchblack room, my mind raced through the dark timeline of my life. "If I hadn't rushed back that night when she called... If that fire hadn't swallowed my hands...

What would my life have looked like?" When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting at my desk. I was staring at the courier holding a thick cardboard envelope.

It was the day my visa arrived. ... "Elton, sign here, please. Express delivery from the visa consulate." The pen in my hand trembled slightly.

In my past life, I had only glanced at this envelope before it vanished that very night, along with my passport.

I had torn the house apart searching for it, sweat pouring down my face in sheer panic, while my mother stood beside me with reddened eyes, sniffling, "It's all my fault, sweetie.

I should have put it somewhere safe." Then came the fire. And I never had the chance to look for it again.

I signed the slip, pulled the envelope close, and clutched it tightly against my chest. "Is that it?" Marianne walked out of the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour.

When she saw the official seal on the envelope, her eyes flashed with a brief, hungry light. "Let Mom see." I pulled the envelope away and slid it into my bag. "I’ve got it.

It’s fine." She blinked, startled, then forced a gentle smile. "I just want a peek, Elton. It’s not like I haven’t seen your papers before." I didn't move.

The smile on her face slowly stiffened, morphing into something brittle. "Elton... who are you protecting it from? Me?" I knew that tone intimately.

It was wrapped in tenderness, laced with a subtle hint of hurt and grievance. In my past life, it was my weakness.

Whenever she used that voice, I would immediately apologize, explain myself, and hand over whatever she wanted, terrified of making her feel distant or unloved.

This time, I zipped my bag, clicked the TSA lock into place, and pulled the strap over my shoulder. "These are critical documents.

I’m keeping them on me." Marianne’s eyes welled with tears at an impossible speed. "You’re going abroad now, so you think your mother is ignorant?

That I'm not even worthy of touching your things?" Just then, our neighbor, Mrs. Rita, walked in through the front door carrying a bowl of freshly washed cherries.

Hearing the commotion, she immediately frowned at me. "Elton, honestly! Is your mother going to eat your passport?

What's the harm in letting her look?" Marianne lowered her head, her shoulders trembling softly. "Forget it, Rita. He’s grown up now. He has his own world.

I’m just a burden to him." Rita’s heart bled for her on the spot. She turned to me, scolding, "Son, you can't forget your roots.

Your mother sacrificed everything to raise you on her own. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for her?" I looked at the two of them, my voice devoid of emotion. "Mrs.

Rita, I know my mother worked hard." "Then—" "But working hard doesn't give her the right to hold onto my passport." Rita froze, caught off guard. Marianne raised her eyes.

For a fraction of a second, a cold, sharp resentment glinted in her gaze—fast as a needle prick—before it dissolved back into helpless tears. "Elton, I’m not trying to control you," she sobbed. "I’m just scared.

You’re going so far away, to a foreign country where you barely know anyone. What if you get sick?

What if someone takes advantage of you?" "I’m twentytwo, Mom." Her head snapped up. "What does twentytwo matter?!

You could be eightytwo, and you’d still be my son!" Her voice spiked into a shrill pitch. "Your father died young! I poured my entire soul into you!

Now that your wings are grown, you’re just going to fly away without a second thought for me?!" I lowered my gaze. I had heard that exact phrase every single day of my life.

In my previous existence, I had surrendered to it every single time. This time, I looked her dead in the eye and asked, "So, you want me to stay?" Marianne froze.

The tap in the kitchen dripped in the heavy silence. "Drip. Drip." Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Slowly, she retreated back behind her mask of fragile, maternal sorrow. "Mom isn't that selfish... I’m just going to miss you." I let out a cold, hollow laugh. "Good.

Because I am leaving tomorrow. No matter what." ... Marianne didn't say another word to me for the rest of the evening. I locked myself in my room and went to work.

First, I scanned every single piece of my identification, uploading them to an encrypted cloud drive and sending copies to three separate secure email addresses.

Finally, I drafted an email to my program advisor, Professor Helena Ross. "Dear Professor Ross," "Please make a formal note on my file: Effective immediately, any request to defer, withdraw, or forfeit my admission and scholarship must be confirmed by me directly via a live video call.

Any request made solely via email, written letter, or by a family member is to be treated as fraudulent and void." Ten minutes later, my phone rang.

It was Professor Ross. "Elton," her voice was sharp, professional, and clear. "Is something happening at home?" I looked at the strip of light creeping under my bedroom door from the hallway. "There might be." She didn't pry into the messy details. "Send me your confirmation.

I’ll sync it with the international admissions office at the Paris Conservatoire right now." She paused, her tone softening slightly. "Elton... don't carry everything on your own shoulders." A lump formed in my throat.

After the accident in my past life, Professor Ross had come to the hospital to see me.

Marianne had blocked her at the door, claiming I was mentally hysterical and refused to see anyone.

Years later, after my hands were already ruined, I found a letter tucked inside an old textbook. It was from Professor Ross.

It had contained only one line: "If there is even a sliver of you that still wants to play, do not let anyone else decide that your journey is over." By the time I found it, it had been far too late.

After hanging up, I took the second step. I installed hidden wireless cameras—one at the entryway, one in the living room, and one near the kitchen threshold. Public areas only.

Nothing in the bedrooms or bathroom. The devices synced directly to my cloud server, timestamped, with a twohour battery backup in case the power was cut.

I also replaced the standard smoke detector in the hallway with a smart, networkconnected model.

The outer shell looked identical to the old one; Marianne wouldn't notice the difference.

At 1:00 AM, I slipped out of the apartment and went down to the property management office. "Mr. Frank," I said to the nightshift manager, "I’m flying out tomorrow for my studies.

I’m worried my mother might forget to turn off the stove while I'm gone. I’ve shut off the main gas valve.

Would you mind keeping these bottles of rubbing alcohol and highproof cleaning solvents logged in your storage for me?" Frank chuckled, impressed by my thoroughness. "You’re a cautious kid, Elton.

Isn't your mother usually pretty careful?" I smiled faintly. "When people get stressed, they make mistakes." When I returned, the living room was dark.

I pushed open my bedroom door and noticed immediately that my desk drawers had been rummaged through. The position of my bag had shifted.

There was a fresh scratch mark near the TSA lock. Marianne appeared behind me in the doorway like a ghost. "I was just checking if you forgot to pack anything," she whispered.

She was wearing her nightgown, her face pale, looking as if she hadn't slept a wink. "Are you really locking me out of your room now, Elton?" I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder. "Knock before you come in next time." She looked as though I had slapped her across the face, swaying slightly. "Elton... what is wrong with you?

You were never like this before." I stared back at her. "Before, I didn't realize how many things I actually needed to lock up." Her expression shifted instantly—a flash of pure, cold hostility.

But just as quickly, she pressed a hand to her forehead, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "My chest hurts..." she gasped, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Elton...

I can't breathe..." In my past life, this was her ultimate weapon. The moment she clutched her heart, my boundaries vanished. I would throw away my dreams just to comfort her.

This time, I pulled out my phone and dialed emergency services directly. "Operator? My mother is experiencing chest tightness and acute shortness of breath.

Please send an ambulance to Oakridge Condos, Building 7, Apartment 1601." Marianne’s hyperventilating froze midgasp.

She stared at me in sheer disbelief. "Professional medical problems require professional doctors," I said calmly. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes turning bloodred.

Not with sadness—with pure, unadulterated hatred.

I grabbed my suitcase and started walking toward the door. "Where are you going?" she hissed from behind me. "A hotel near the airport." "Your flight isn't until tomorrow afternoon!

You're leaving tonight?!" "Yes." She suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my wrist with a force that felt terrifyingly unnatural for a frail, sick woman. "Are you really that desperate to get away from me?!" I reached down and unclasped her fingers, one by one. "I'm not running away from you, Mom," I said, my voice steady. "I'm going to live my life." The moment the door slammed shut behind me, the sound of a ceramic mug shattering against the wood echoed through the hall.

I didn't turn back. ... Outside the window of my airport hotel room, the runway lights blazed like a trail of fallen stars through the night.

After taking a shower, I tucked my passport and boarding pass into an antitheft body pouch beneath my shirt.

On the desk, my laptop screen glowed, displaying the live video feed from my apartment. Marianne hadn't gone to the hospital.

When the paramedics arrived downstairs, she had met them at the door, laughing apologetically as she explained it was just a minor misunderstanding—a mother and son having an emotional argument. "I'm so sorry for wasting your time," she had said with a sweet, sheepish smile. "My boy just panics too easily." After the paramedics left, she sat alone in the dark living room for a long time.

At 11:06 PM, she put on an outdoor jacket and left the apartment. At 11:34 PM, she returned. She was carrying a heavy black plastic bag. I zoomed in on the feed.

Inside the bag were box matches, a longneck utility lighter, and two plastic bottles labeled "Industrial Degreaser & Solvent".

My fingertips went numbly cold. "The fire in my past life hadn't been a tragic accident." She had planned it. She had gone out and purchased the accelerants ahead of time.

At 11:49 PM, she pulled a chair over and reached up to tear down the hallway smoke detector. She thought that by removing the battery, the alarm would stay silent.

She didn't know I had replaced it earlier that afternoon. The new unit was hardwired into a secondary smart hub linked directly to my phone and the building's emergency system.

At 12:02 AM, she went to the kitchen and turned the knob on the gas stove. Nothing happened.

She knelt down, checked the pipes, and realized the main shutoff valve had been turned off. On the screen, her face twisted into a grotesque, terrifying scowl.

She stood there for a few seconds, and then—out of nowhere—she smiled. That smile sent a violent shiver down my spine.

It was the look of an actress who realized her prop had been swapped out, yet remained utterly determined to finish the play anyway.

She walked to the entryway and unscrewed the bottles, pouring the liquid onto the floor.

The amount wasn't huge—if put out quickly, it would only scorch the doorway and the edge of the kitchen. It was just enough to create a terrifying scene.

Just enough to force me to race back from the airport. At 12:08 AM, she struck a match.

The moment the flame touched the liquid on the floor, a bright, eager tongue of fire roared to life. At that exact second, my phone rang. The caller ID flashed: "Mom".

I stared at those three letters, feeling as if a thick coil of barbed wire were tightening around my lungs. In my past life, she had called me just like this.

Her screams had shattered through the speaker, tearing me apart. She had sobbed that the smoke was too thick, that she couldn't open the door, weeping, "Elton...

Mom only has you!" And so, I had sprinted into the trap. I had thrown myself into the fire she had carefully laid out for me. This time, I pressed answer.

Marianne’s bloodcurdling screams instantly blasted through the receiver. "Elton! Fire! The apartment is on fire! I can't open the front door! Come back and save me!

Please, Elton!" On my laptop monitor, I watched her standing safely by the open master bedroom door. The bedroom window was cracked open, allowing fresh air inside.

She was holding a wet towel over her mouth and nose, standing a wide, safe distance from the flames at the entrance. She wasn't trapped. She was waiting for me.

She was waiting for me to panic, to come running back, to charge through the thick smoke and hand my life over to her. I closed my eyes.

Deep inside me, a tiny, traumatized child still wanted to save his mother. But a colder, clearer voice resonated through my skull: "She isn't waiting for you to save her.

She’s waiting for you to ruin yourself." I picked up my burner phone and dialed 911. "Emergency services?

I need to report a structural fire at Oakridge Condos, Building 7, Apartment 1601." "Is anyone inside?" the operator asked urgently.

I kept my eyes glued to the monitor, speaking with crisp, chilling precision. "The fire started at the main entrance threshold. It involves chemical accelerants.

I turned off the main gas line earlier today and removed all highproof spirits from the unit. There is one 53yearold female inside.

She is currently near the master bedroom, fully mobile, but emotionally unstable." "Sir, where are you right now?" "I am at the airport hotel near Metro International." "You're the caller?" "I am the homeowner, and I am her son," I said.

My voice was raspy, but remarkably steady. "I have a live security feed of the interior. Send a team to extract her through the north stairwell.

Please have security evacuate the sixteenth floor immediately." "Sir, are you en route?" "No," I answered clearly into the receiver. "I am submitting the live video feed to law enforcement right now.

Send professionals to get her out. I will not be running into the fire." ... By the time the fire department arrived, the flames hadn't even reached the living room.

Because the gas line was dead and I had removed the household flammables, the blaze was a fraction of the inferno from my past life.

Building security knocked on doors and safely evacuated the neighbors on the floor. Through the camera's audio feed, I heard the sirens and the chaotic voices in the hallway.

Marianne finally panicked. She sprinted toward the doorway, trying frantically to rip the hidden camera down from the wall, but the heat pushed her back.

When the firefighters kicked open the front door, she was sitting near the bedroom window, coughing violently.

Her face was smeared with soot, and she had a minor, superficial blister on the back of her hand. She was in no actual danger.

At 3:00 AM, I took a cab back to the apartment complex. Not to comfort her. To hand over the evidence. A crowd had gathered in the courtyard downstairs. The moment Mrs.

Rita saw me, she rushed over, her face flushed with outrage. "Elton! Where on earth have you been?!

Your mother almost lost her life!" My uncle, Wayne, was standing nearby, his face dark as a thundercloud. "You were only forty minutes away!

You called the police and didn't even drive back?!

Elton, that is your mother!" Before I could speak, Marianne—wrapped in a blanket inside an ambulance with a light bandage on her hand—started weeping hysterically. "Elton..." she whimpered, looking like the picture of a tragic, broken woman. "I called you...

Why didn't you come back?" Murmurs rippled through the onlookers. "Kids these days are so coldhearted..." "Abandoning his own mother just to go abroad?" "Arrogant artist type.

Thinks he's too good for his family now." Marianne sobbed harder, leaning into the sympathy. "I don't blame you, sweetie... Mom was just terrified.

As I was calling out your name, all I could think about was how I used to carry you to the hospital in my arms when you had a fever as a baby..." She was a master performer.

In a matter of seconds, she had painted me as an ungrateful, heartless monster who watched his mother burn.

Uncle Wayne grabbed my arm, shaking me. "Listen to me, your mother is fine. You tell the officers right now that this was an accident!

Don't ruin her health with a police investigation!" I looked at him, then at Marianne. "An accident?" I asked. Wayne glared. "What else would it be?!

Are you trying to suggest your own mother set the fire on purpose?!" I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen, turning toward the police officer standing nearby. "Officer, I would like to formally submit digital evidence.

I have highdefinition video footage, smart smoke alarm server logs, and recorded phone calls." Marianne’s crying abruptly cut off.

I turned to the officer, my voice carrying over the quieted crowd. "Prior to the fire, my mother purchased a lighter, matches, and concentrated industrial solvents.

Upon returning home, she systematically disabled the primary smoke detector, verified the gas line, poured accelerants across the exit corridor, and ignited the fire.

All of this was captured on cloudsynced video." The air in the courtyard instantly went dead silent.