The boy ran quickly back to his home, pulled open the gate, and saw his mother. She was standing a few yards outside the door of their hut, wearing a brilliant smile.
"You're…" His mother paused for a moment to look Almeida over, her eyes lingering on his face. "Almeida," she said, stepping firmly toward the boy. She leaned down and reached out a hand to touch his cheeks.
A moment later, Alejandra's fingertips were stained with a clear liquid. "Have you been crying?" she asked, though the question didn't need an answer.
"Huh?" Almeida tilted his head. With a smile still visible on his face, he looked at his mother. "No, why would I be?" Before he could say more, he brought a hand to his cheek, only for his fingertips to be dampened by his own tears.
He stopped, staring unconsciously at his hand, then at his mother as she watched him back. He lowered his head slightly; as if remembering something both vital and fleeting, he opened his mouth and then closed it again a few times.
"What's bothering you?" Alejandra dropped to one knee. She noticed how her son's demeanor had shifted in an instant. His recent joy had vanished; his lowered gaze and the tears streaming steadily down his cheeks stood in sharp contrast to his smile.
The boy bit his lower lip hard and slowly shook his head. "I don't know. It's like something is missing." His chest rose and fell at a pace slightly faster than usual.
Alejandra placed a hand on Almeida's head. She looked at the sun, which was about to dip below the horizon, and then at the yellowed grass.
"Sometimes it's better to just forget things. We can't always win, you know. I... I mean, um, Mrs. Bett is preparing a feast tomorrow. Last year's sales exceeded expectations and she wants to celebrate," Alejandra said. Her voice caught, her eyes grew red and glassy, and her heart pounded heavily.
"You're my first and only son, maybe that's why," she thought as she pulled the boy against her chest. "What should I do? I should comfort him, I should say something, but what? I don't know." She let out a long sigh as she held her son, who was beginning to sob.
"At the end of the day, I'm a bad mother."
The two stayed there for a moment, and only when the darkness began to set in did Alejandra suggest they go inside. Almeida nodded slowly.
He walked to his chair and sat down with movements repeated hundreds or thousands of times. He looked at the clay bowl with a lid on top. His mother closed the door, sat across from him, and began to drink from a glass of water.
He uncovered the bowl. Tonight's dinner was... "Beef and vegetable stew." He smiled faintly. His stomach growled, and he wiped the remaining tears from his face with the back of his hand.
"You always used to ask for beef and vegetable stew," Alejandra said, covering her smile with her hand. "In fact, I never knew why you liked this dish so much..." she hummed before taking a sip of water.
Almeida closed his eyes, feeling a warmth in his heart. He shook his head slightly before looking down at his food.
He paused. The stew looked remarkably familiar. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember.
"Wasn't breakfast today beef and vegetable stew? And dinner last night, too?" he asked himself. But that thought felt strange in his mind, like a memory that didn't belong to him.
"By the way, what did you do today?" Alejandra interrupted his thoughts with a casual question.
Still thinking about the stew and the oddness of it all, Almeida looked up at his mother with a strange expression. "Today I was..." He stopped mid-sentence. "I don't remember," he concluded, a growing melancholy taking hold.
Alejandra arched an eyebrow. Noting her son's state, she stood up, placed a hand on his head, and began to hum a song.
"Maybe you're just tired," she murmured. She grabbed a spoon, dipped it into the soup, and brought it to her son's mouth. "Mom used to say all we need is a good meal to feel better." She smiled.
Almeida turned his head slightly to look at his mother's face. His expression shifted instantly. He froze for a moment before swallowing hard. "Since when did you get so old?" He noticed his mother's face—which in his mind was etched as youthful with smooth skin—now had wrinkles around the mouth and crow's feet, accompanied by a tired gaze.
He blinked for a moment, utterly confused. Driven by hunger, he turned back and let his mother feed him the stew.
The world went black. However, for the boy, this time it was simply like sleeping. His consciousness switched off, and in the next moment, he found himself resting on the yellowed grass, leaning against the apple tree near his hut, looking at the morning sun.
"Bzzrrpp... strangeness... strangeness... not functioning correctly... must be corrected... must be corrected." A voice rang in the boy's mind. However, he simply blinked. The voice passed so unnoticed through his mind that it might as well not have existed.
"The sun is beautiful. It's warm... hitting the cold of my skin and making me feel better," he whispered, a slight smile forming.
"And yet, this time, it isn't warming you," a voice said. This time it was clearer, less guttural. It had the advisory tone of an older person, yet it was devoid of emotion.
Almeida narrowed his eyes. In a state difficult to describe, he didn't panic. He blinked a few times before responding. "How is it possible for the sun not to be warm?"
"Perhaps it's not just this time. The sun isn't warming you. You aren't hot, but you aren't cold either. Can you even feel heat or cold right now?" Almeida found the voice's comment funny.
He smiled slightly, tilting his head. "That's not possible. Heat and cold exist. They've always existed. Just like me... I've always existed." Almeida smiled faintly.
"...hahahaha, hahaha, hahaha!!!" The voice laughed loudly inside his mind. The boy stood up just before noticing the obvious.
"Wait." He looked quickly from left to right. With ragged breath, he did a quick lap around the fruitless apple tree. He stared at his hut in the distance, his eyes wide with sudden realization.
"Almeida, Almeida, Almeida. Where is your necklace? It's important. Important." The voice rang out with a particular sharpness. The boy stopped dead in his tracks. He reached for his neck and swallowed hard. As if he had suddenly lost a limb, he moved his hands frantically to search around his throat.
"Necklace... necklace... it's important. Important," Almeida repeated. Before oxygen could fail him, he forced a breath, but the air refused to enter his throat.
"Bbzz," the boy muttered as his neck burned. He felt as if his brain were growing, trying to shatter his skull. He fell to his knees, his body twitching erratically.
"Hands... my hands," he thought, his torso swaying from side to side. "I've lost my hands." He slammed his head against the ground, his lungs inflating and deflating in a desperate attempt to get oxygen.
Moving like a fish out of water on the ground, the boy stared at the sun in the distance. His bloodshot eyes focused on that brilliant orb.
Suddenly, he reached an absurd conclusion: "The sun... it isn't warm."
The moment he achieved this clarity, he inhaled sharply, finally forcing oxygen into his lungs. Before he could feel relief, he swallowed at the same time, leaving him in a tangle of heavy gasps and coughing.
The boy's head thrashed from side to side for a few moments before everything began to calm down. Unconsciously, he looked down and saw what had been blocking his breath.
His own hands were gripped tightly around his neck, having squeezed with enough force to cut off his air.
Slowly, he lowered his hands. Kneeling on the yellow grass, he held out both palms, staring at them with wide, dilated eyes.
Finally, the boy looked at the sun. His breathing was calm, his body trembling, his hands outstretched.
"It's important... a necklace. I must... find it," he said to himself. He didn't understand how, he didn't understand why. "But it's something I must do."
He narrowed his eyes, remembering something his father once told him: "If you want to remember something important that you are going to forget, leave a mark. Something different in your life. That mark will bring the memories back."
The boy gritted his teeth. He lowered his head toward his right hand before lunging like a hunting dog at the back of his own palm.
He bit down hard. He bit with intensity. He bit the back of his hand with purpose, but above all, he bit with hope. And as he did, a single word echoed in his mind: "Important."