Chapter 4
Episode 4mama lipo laipynemis
Sukodi laima tsip kad dijonas mano tapo lisudisku red blackno bordo ksi virna inysrpa dukuriaibjibts dyiliu arsbiska nakti secherezados pasakos
I climbed the ladders that night. The ones that led nowhere and everywhere, that my mother had climbed before me, and her mother before her. They were iron rungs bolted into the dark, cold to the touch, and they groaned under my weight as if I were the first to use them in years. The air smelled of rust and something sweet—overripe plums crushed underfoot. I don’t know why I thought of plums then, except that the children had been asking for fruit, real fruit, not the nano-paste that glowed faintly and tasted of nothing.
At the top of the second ladder, I stopped. The light from the ball in my pocket pulsed once, weakly, like a heartbeat underwater. I had hidden it there, against my thigh, wrapped in a scrap of black cloth. It was non-glowing, yes, but still alive in its own way. I could feel its weight pressing against me, a small, quiet truth in a world of lies.
Below, the Dark Place yawned. The children were sleeping—or pretending to sleep. They learned early to pretend. Dijon, my oldest, had stopped asking questions a month ago. He just watched me with those eyes that were too old, too knowing. Last night he had said, “Mama, why do you climb ladders if there is nothing at the top?” I had no answer. I gave him the story about the red-black bordeaux stain I found once on an old wall, shaped like a mouth, like a wound. I told him it was the color of what we carry inside, and he nodded as if he understood. Maybe he did.
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