Hm — Hmhm — Hm — Hm — Hmhm —
It's been a long time since I last heard that melody.
It was a song without words — soft and unhurried, the kind that slipped out of someone's throat without them even noticing. I never asked for its name when I was little. It simply existed, as natural as the air, as constant as breathing. But I never forgot it.
It was my mother's favourite song to hum.
She hummed it almost everywhere she went. In the mornings, stirring porridge in the kitchen, the melody would drift out with the steam. In the afternoons, folding laundry in the living room, she'd hum without realising it, the sound rising and falling with the movement of her hands. Even when she was just sitting on the couch, lost in thought, those few notes would find their way out of her — low and casual, like something carved so deeply into her body it could surface at any moment. I never knew what the song was called. I only knew it belonged there.
"Is that the only song you know?" my father would tease, smiling.
She never argued back. She'd just look up with that unbothered smile — caught, but completely indifferent — and keep humming. Sometimes she'd hum even louder, a quiet protest, and they'd both laugh. That laughter was light and ordinary. Ordinary enough that I only understood much later what it meant: some sounds you think will always be there, until one day they're simply gone.
Time in dreams always has a strange texture. Thick and slow, yet somehow it's already passed by the time you come to.
Sunlight slanted through the window, falling in still rectangles on the wooden floor — unmoving, unshifting, as if time itself had frozen. The air was warm in a way that felt just right, windless, with even the dust motes suspended lazily in the light. The whole space was sunk in a deep, quiet stillness. I stood at the doorway. I didn't go in.
In the kitchen — a silhouette.
Water dripped softly, a steady rhythm, like time leaking away too slowly to notice. Steam curled from the stove, threads of it rising and dissolving in the light. And beneath it all, the melody seeped into the air — into the light, into the doorway where I stood.
Hm — Hmhm — Hm — Hm — Hmhm —
So familiar it almost stopped my breath.
I didn't move. I knew who that was. And precisely because I knew, I couldn't bring myself to go closer. That silhouette was so familiar — the curve of her shoulders, the way the ends of her hair fell at the side of her neck, the slight tilt of her body as she stood and worked — every detail exactly as I remembered. I stood there, rooted, pulled forward and held back at the same time.
I opened my mouth. The sound caught in my throat, pressed against it for a long moment before it finally came out — fragile, uncertain.
"...Mum?"
The melody didn't stop. She didn't respond.
I took a step forward. The floor gave a quiet creak, sharp in the silence. I called again, steadier this time. "Mum." Still she didn't turn. Her shoulders didn't move. Her hands kept going, as if she hadn't heard me at all.
I moved closer — close enough now to see her hands clearly. She was washing vegetables, water running over green leaves and trailing down. The melody was clearer here, every note distinct, and with each note something rose in my chest — unease, like walking on ice. You know you're moving, but you don't know when it will give way.
"Mum?"
Even I could hear the urgency in my own voice this time.
Then her hands slowed. Not suddenly — more like she'd finally caught a sound, and was winding down, little by little. Her hands hovered in the air as the water dripped on in silence. Her shoulders shifted. She began to turn.
Slowly.
So slowly I could count every small movement. Her shoulder line first, then her back, then the side of her face emerging from shadow into light, her hair swaying with the turn, a strand falling across her cheek. I held my breath, staring, completely still. Just a little more. Just one more moment, and I would see her face.
Just as she turned —
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was white.
The room was quiet — a quiet that felt, somehow, reassuring. No running water. No melody. No silhouette. Only the white ceiling and a thin line of morning light seeping in at the edge of the curtains, lying still on the floor. I lay there without moving, staring upward, quietly confirming — yes, I'm back. This room is real. There's no kitchen here. No melody.
After a few seconds, I slowly sat up.
My breathing was still uneven, like I'd just run somewhere. There was something in my chest that hadn't settled yet. But the melody lingered in my mind — vivid in a way that didn't feel like the remnant of a dream. Vivid like I'd just heard it.
Hm — Hmhm — Hm — Hm — Hmhm —
I paused, then said quietly to myself: "Elena... why are you thinking about that song again."
The room gave no answer. Light edged in at the curtains. Outside, the weather looked fine — the ground was dry, and I could hear the occasional passing car from the street below. I sat on the bed, looking at my hands resting on my knees. My fingertips were cold, like I'd just been pulled from somewhere deep and hadn't quite warmed up yet.
I'm in Year Ten now.
Time keeps moving forward. That much is certain — no one can change it. So much has changed. Different room. Different school. The days piling up, one on top of another, pressing the old things down to somewhere deep. But some things are like they got left behind on a particular day, pinned in place — a melody, a silhouette, the feeling of the kitchen floor beneath my feet. No matter how far I go, they find me in some unguarded moment and catch up.
I wish this wasn't just a dream.
Maybe then I could see you one more time.