ARIA
I arrived home earlier than usual that day. The heat hit me the second I stepped inside, thick and heavy, pressing against my skin like a warning. The faint smell of burnt oil and sweat lingered in the air, the kind that comes from cooking too long and forgetting to open a window.
I closed the door quietly behind me, the creak echoing through the small, still apartment.
“Mama?” I called out, dropping my school bag beside the door.
But there was no answer.
She was supposed to be home. She hadn’t gone to work today—not since they fired her. Maybe she went down the street to buy something? Still, the house felt too quiet. Usually, I’d hear the soft hum of the TV or the clatter of pots in the kitchen. But today there was nothing—just the distant rumble of a generator outside and the
