Daniel was alerted by the hissing sound of the kettle. He put the pencil down and lingered on the letter lying on the desk. He shifted his focus to his little hands, slowly supinated them, and revealed his calloused palms. He could not brush off from his mind the horrible memory, his clumsy dribbling, and the spoiled pasta. His brown eyes were blankly imprisoned in guilt. He lifted his head, and a reflection from the windowpane stared back at him—a freckled boy, expressionless and pale. He shook his head, hid the papers under his study desk, hopped off the wooden chair, and then rushed to where the hissing sound came from—the kitchen.

He switched on the light and spotted the electric kettle. Taking out the plug, he retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and poured hot water into them—one for milk and the other for chamomile tea. After searching the fridge for tomatoes and cucumber and opening another cabinet for sliced bread and canned tuna, he meticulously peeled the cucumber and chopped the tomatoes with his tiny hands. In the process, he accidentally forgot about the mayonnaise, which was left alone on the far edge of the counter. However, he quickly reached for it, generously spreading it on the soft bread's surface. He then topped the sandwiches with thin slices of tomatoes, cucumber, and tuna flakes—one for himself and one for his mom.

Daniel lightly pressed his footsteps, climbing the stairs while holding a platter. He reached the main bedroom door, turned the knob as quietly as possible, and opened it ajar. A gust of wind escaped. He peeped through the narrow opening, surveying the room cloaked in stale dimness.

His mom had stationarily fallen into a deep sleep. He entered the room while holding his breath, put the tray on a desk by the door, and gasped for another volume of air. He slid the drawer open and prepared her meds. He did not know what these meds were for, but he followed the prescription explained by a physician and a nurse a year ago. He closed his eyes.

———————

Daniel flashed from his hazy memory of the night when he called assistance from a hospital. His mother was not being herself that evening. It was two weeks after the baby's death, the disintegration of the moon, and the killing that poor Daniel claimed as his own doing.

The male nurse with a slender neck comforted his mom in her uncontrollable sobbing as if nothing could console her after the life from her belly was lost. She screamed in high pitches and cursed the nurse badly. But then the nurse was too patient.

The old bearded physician helped him and used his authority and big arms, making the squabble fade. He then began his quick check of her health.

"I do not need any help!" his mother blustered in a cracking husky voice, "Not from you, or from you... and not from him!" she pointed her forefinger at Daniel, frozen in shock, leaning against the gray wall.

"Ma'am, relax. You're scaring your boy," the physician explained.

Her ginger eyes streamed tears like a waterfall. She swung her arms theatrically in the air for a couple of seconds and ended up caressing her belly. In a few ticks, she was still, but she spun her neck to where the terrified boy was watching her. "You should be scared of that boy," she whispered slowly.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but what did you say?" the nurse asked.

"You should have an eye at your back because that boy," she glared at the poor kid, "has done something... bad."

Daniel ran to his room, just a wall adjacent to hers, and slammed the door. A picture frame landed on the dusty carpet. He curled like a ball and covered his ears, quivering like a sheep on his bed. The neatly pressed bed sheet wrinkled as he buried his head in the mattress. His lungs were burning in hatred from not breathing and not letting his pain out. He wept.

He glanced outside through the window and saw the stars twinkling in full luminosity. Then suddenly, his phone rang, bugging all the sadness off. His spirit returned. He reached for the phone in his pocket and pressed the green icon.

"Daddy," he groggily muttered.

"Daniel, are you okay? Is your mom okay?" he asked, pushing his eyeglasses up to his face. "Please adjust the phone camera so I can see your face," his father demanded, "Are you all right?"

"No... I mean, I'm all fine, Dad." Daniel toughened his face up.

"Okay, I called because I feel restless, and I don't know why. My nerves are jumbled."

"Mom is not well."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, but a physician and a nurse are at our house. I called them because Mom has changed and—" his voice cracked.

"Now, give the phone to the medics, and I will speak to them," he said without a hint of panic, "Go on. After that, continue to play with your toys—try to amuse yourself."

A roaring cry woke the little boy's soul. He fled to the other room and searched for the thin nurse. The nurse was not in the room, so he gave the phone to the old bearded physician. He swallowed a large lump of saliva and stood outside enough to hear the conversation.

"Mister Veneracion," the old man started, "I am sorry to inform you that your wife is experiencing depression and dyspnea."

"Okay, I'm listening," answered his father.

Daniel lowered his head. His curly hair hung down, covering his vision. He stepped away until he could no longer hear the conversation. At the foot of the stairs, he seated, hearing only the muffled shrieks and curses.

The male nurse barged through the front door carrying a brown paper bag, a small oxygen tank, and some thin transparent tubes. Looking at the apparatuses, he knew that his mom was undergoing something miserably tough. Daniel helped the struggling nurse.

He squeaked. "About my mom—"

"Sorry, kid. But I'm in a hurry," he gulped, "Your mom is a strong woman. Don't forget that," he added, then he craned his slender neck up and ascended quickly to meet the physician.

Daniel stayed for a while, climbing up and down the stairs again and again. He decided to look inside the room and saw his mom reclining calmly. His uneasiness slipped away. He glanced at the nurse, who was busily fixing the cannula in her nostrils and adjusting the oxygen tank's pressure valve. On his left, an orange plastic bottle and an empty glass of water were on the table. The old physician walked across the room and stood beside him. He wiped the dirty phone screen with the edge of his white gown. "Here's your phone, peanut," he widened his eyes.

The kid grabbed it back, put it inside his pocket, and showed a tiny smile. "My name's Daniel."

"Daniel, your father asked me if I could visit to look after your mom's progress, but I say... no. I am sorry," he paused, "I know his family, yes, but I am a very busy person."

"I can look after them!" the nurse insisted, "I will come here once a month to make sure she's not running out of pills."

"There you are, kid! He is offering a little of his time for you and your mom. Problem solved," the old man concluded.

The curly-haired boy showed a tiny smile for the second time.

———————

He opened his eyes and awoke from the vivid memory of the past.

Daniel twisted open a transparent orange bottle, picked two white tablets from it, and placed them on a little porcelain saucer. He walked across the room quietly, trying not to ruin her fine morning. He carefully fixed the tray down on a table near the mattress.

"Mommy," he whispered, "Mommy."

Her left shoulder jerked. "Just leave it there," she said softly.

He noticed the small oxygen tank was in the far corner of the room. "Mommy, the oxygen you... you don't need the oxygen anymore?"

"No, my dear... I can breathe without it."

"But—"

His mother turned her back, propped herself on one elbow, and frowned at him. "I don't need it. I am okay," she placed her right hand on her chest, "I am not sick. I can breathe without it," she said breathily.

Daniel lowered his eyesight, took two steps away from the mattress, and immediately left the room, for he knew he had ruined her day. He never attempted to look back. He exhaled, shutting the door behind him.

Down in the kitchen, he ate his sandwich and quickly gulped the warm milk he had prepared. He wiped the smear of white fluid on his whiskers. And then, he set his face straight and started with the household chores.

The boy enjoyed the dishwashing bubbles while washing the dishes. The counter, dining table, and other surfaces were sparkling clean. When he passed the towering refrigerator, he slipped a little but maintained his balance. He looked for a dry mop inside the toilet. As he mopped the tiled floor dry, sweat glistened and built upon his forehead. A bead of sweat slid off his brow until the droplet plopped on the rosy grout between the white tiles. Daniel shut his eyes. The spot, that very spot where his sweat rested, was the exact place where his mother bled. The hurtful memory snatched his remaining vigor to finish the cleaning. His tiny smile curved down, and his clear corneas hazed lifeless. He exhaled a volume of warm air, trying to forget it, and continued mopping. He kept himself busy.

Time had flown so fast that Daniel was almost done with the chores. The noon sun was bright outside. Too bright, it could hurt anyone's eyes. No clouds were hovering up the skies, and the air was too dry, painting mirages of moving images and colors.

People affirmed that this was the price we had to pay for neglecting the gifts of Earth. They said it was climate change, from the pollution we enjoy emitting from driving our cars or even grilling our favorite barbecues and sausages.

The heat was unbearable during noontime and lasted until the sun hid the horizon. Daniel was sweating under his loose printed yellow shirt. His lean body build was visible from the sagging wet shirt forming his torso. He might seem thin, small, and fragile, but he was healthy. He chose to be more productive, moving his muscles and flexing his bones to help his mom and dad, instilling the seed of responsibility in his mind. Without him, without his little moving fingers and toes, his mother would entirely lose her bearings, his father would give up and never dream again, and he would never have the chance to ask for forgiveness for the murder he committed. He needed to think sensibly, act maturely, and throw aside childish thoughts that might hinder the healing of scars. The family he remembered a long time ago, a perfect family he described, was collapsing and may not be restored as before.

A nosy neighbor once told Daniel that a child like him—left alone for extended periods, caring for his mother, and not attending school—could prompt an intervention from social services. Daniel was aware of this possibility, but the unprecedented, intense heat gripping the world had everyone too consumed with staying cool and alive to worry about anything else.

———————

"Mom," Daniel whispered, standing still by her bedroom door, carrying a heavy tray, and knocking three times. He bit his lip. "Mom," he sniffed, "Your lunch is here. I ordered delicious Filipino food," he went on.

There was no response, so he entered the room.

"I will just leave it here on the desk." His hands quivered, and the glass of water swayed as he lowered his arms. He pulled out the desk drawer, opened the orange bottle, and picked up two white tablets. His nervousness faded bit by bit every time he went inside the gloomy room, for it became his routine for almost a year.

Since his mother's breakdown, he delivered food, prepared the meds, shut the door, and kept himself busy with anything. He had no clue what his mother was doing alone inside her small melancholy world. He imagined that his mom was a queen lost in a dark forest full of flickering fireflies that guided her back to her fancy palace or imagined her as a rogue space trooper floating in a starry cosmos waiting for a vehicle that could travel at light speed.

She was standing by the window, feeling the warmth of the noon sun, drowning deep in thought.

He croaked, "I know it is one of your favorite cuisines." He waited for a sound or a gesture, but none was forthcoming. "I will go now," he pinched his nose.

Daniel missed his mom so much, longing to redo the memories of her beauty, kindness, and warmth. Back then, he enjoyed watching her whenever she was out in the garden, feeling the breeze caressing her fair face and tossing her flowing brown hair caught by the strong winds. She loved spending time in the garden, yanking all the weeds out, snipping the limp brown stems off, and pruning the drooping splendor of rotting flowers and buds. Even though the heat was scorching, she kept burrowing the soil loose and digging holes for new bushes to plant that would surely grow beautiful flowers in time. She expertly trimmed the shrubs, forming them into shapes, mostly cubes. Under the deep shade of the two mahogany trees, she raked the fallen leaves into a pile.

Sometimes Daniel sneaked and buried himself under a pile of leaves, like a lion in the savannah mimicking the big cat's patience and stillness, waiting for the right time to attack his prey. He mastered the art of camouflage. From his experience, hiding under the heap of dry leaves was a classic prank. His mother freaked out and got terrified each time he sprung out of it. He never forgot her weird face and her awkward gecko pose. But for him, the best bonding they had was catching the falling leaves, laughing and giggling whenever they missed and stumbled, and rolling on the dirt after the funny game.

The haze of memories was like it all happened yesterday. Daniel withdrew his sight from the withered garden illuminated by the slant golden sunlight. "It is a quiet afternoon," he mumbled. His tiny body was dog-tired after sweating all the household tasks. With his fingers, he kneaded his stiff shoulders and sore neck muscles. I am a strong boy, he thought, toughening his face up. He flexed his neck from left to right, then yawned. "Now, I need a hot bath," he said aloud as if someone was listening.

Surrounded by the white tiled walls of the upstairs bathroom, Daniel sniffed the relaxing lavender scent as his hand played with the warm water, creating soothing sloshes like the springs. He flapped his palms rapidly, rowing back and forth on the rippling water, producing hills of bubbles that lightened up his tired face. The warmth of the bath slowly unchained the knots of his muscles and loosened each tight strand, tenderly and heavenly. He felt very relaxed and could only convey this pleasurable, unexplainable, innate feeling through a wide smile. He hugged himself snugly, his legs bent, pressing to his chest, and his arms looped like a pretzel—all safe and secured like a floating baby inside a womb. The vapor surrounding him, resembling a thick fog, built a canopy that no harm could cross in his little world.

Suddenly, a little pitchy noise turned his joy into curiosity. If only he could figure out where it came from, it would be a plus for his delight. Every five seconds, the squeak resonated, getting louder and louder, closer to hearing and closer to revealing itself from Daniel's senses. He submerged his head like an iceberg. His eyeballs were kept at the level of the tub, pinched his nose, and ensured no air escaped from his sewn lips. And there it was, the moment of exposé, a fascinating movement under the aquamarine towel on the cold floor. What was I thinking? I hurled the clean cloth on the cold, unsure if the toilet floor was sanitary. Idiot, a ham-fisted one, he thought.

The moving lump under the bath towel was trying to find an escape. It was funny watching the tiny bump, cloaked under the cloth's weight, obscuring its vision. It finally reached the edge. Its snout was long and pink; its whiskers were thick; its tail was spotted, and it could stand on its hind legs. The mouse raised its pink nose, pointing to the tub, sensing someone was hiding. It advanced bit by bit, unafraid but skittish, toward the bathtub.

"Mousy!" he shouted after vaulting out from the bubble bath. The plastic ship and the rubber ducky wobbled, creating large waves and spilling some water. The poor mouse sprinted away and contorted its soft body into a small hole below the granite sink.

"And now, he's gone," he uttered, "I want to be friends with him," he scratched his nape. But where in our house can I find his little den? I will search for it sometime, he thought.

Daniel drained all the water out of the tub, rinsed the lather off on his skin, stepped out of the bathtub, and wrapped his body with the towel he left unintentionally on the floor. Back in his bedroom, digging out the closet, he picked a red striped sweatshirt and denim shorts, checked his clothes in the mirror, and slid his tiny feet into his rubber flip-flops. Daniel made sure that his presence was pleasing enough for a notable event tonight, a celebration of light and life. The evening was special to look back at the last moonlight and the cherub's unseen smile. Tonight, he would celebrate a death anniversary alone, solemnly.

He went to check on his mother, but her door was bolted from the inside, so he left her dinner on the floor, hoping she would eat and take her meds. He knew that his mother was not ready to go outside. Setting a foot out in the garden where the baby's remains are buried would break her heart. She was too fragile.

Daniel sent a message to his dad, reminding him. But in the back of his mind, he knew that maybe his dad would not reply. He was kind but eccentric, a voluble scientist but a reserved father. He never spoke about the tragic evening, the death of the baby, but maybe he was preoccupied with outer space work. The boy remembered his father's expression on the phone. There was no hint of sorrow on his shaven jaw, but his eyes didn't lie. They were bloodshot.

A ping on his phone alerted him. NASA forwarded an email, a recorded video message from his father. He tapped the play button.

Daniel, I'm sorry I can't be with you. I'm busy up here at the ISS. I'll be back in three more months with cosmic stories to tell. Anyway, how is your mom? Take care of her. And perhaps, light me a candle for the babe's soul.

His cheeks flattened after watching the short video.

"Dad," he sighed, "All right, I will light two extra candles. I promise."

Daniel gobbled up his dinner and straightaway washed the dishes clean. He grabbed three candlesticks and a matchbox in a drawer and then rushed to the front door. He jerked his neck to one side, looked at the circular wall clock opposite the abstract painting, and checked the time. It was ten past eight.

He slid the wooden door open, revealing the long-forgotten garden that had been green and vibrant once before. The brick fences were still sturdy and compact; however, the paint was eroded, creating illusions of grotesque figures hiding behind the withered woody shrubs. The iron gate in front was intact but, over time, corroded. On the far right side of the brick wall, about ten meters away, the two tall mahogany trees were motionless. He strode his way in the dark toward the parted trees with the aid of waning warm light coming from his mom's window. Few leaves clung to the twisted mahogany branches, exerting their full effort to hold and not fall. He stood between the two towering trees, bent his head down, eyes focused on a smooth black boulder. He huddled closer to it, sat like a bird, and pressed his right palm flat on the glassy rock.

"Hello," he swallowed hard, "I hope you can hear me, but of course, you can't. I am Daniel, your brother. I brought candles for you."

He planted the tallow candles upright and lit a match. "A candle from me," he burned the first wick, "another from Mommy," he lit another, "and lastly from Daddy," he lit the third. His pupils contracted, lost in a trail of bad memories.

"I started to write a letter to you, and I called you, "Luna," after the collapsed moon. I don't know what you felt struggling inside our mom's bleeding womb," his tone changed, more serious but shaky, "I can't forget it. I destroyed our family. I killed you. It was my fault," he croaked, tears wandered off from the edge of his eyelids.

The flickering candle melted as if they were weeping too.

"Sometimes, I ask myself why they hate me. Mom gravely hates me... and Dad... I don't know. But I feel that he left me, suffering here alone," he sniffed. "My world is falling apart."

He dampened his cracked lips. His sight was fixed on some point in the rock, discerning deeper. "Maybe, it wasn't my fault. Maybe it was your fault why they didn't love me anymore. But you're innocent, unborn, and not even gone through the cruelty of the world," his tears were gathering on his chin, and a large teardrop fell, extinguishing one of the flames.

"I am too stupid. What was I doing that morning, that very morning, dribbling my ball near you? What was I thinking? It was an accident, they say. It was unfortunate. But I say no to myself."

Another teardrop extinguished a burning wick.

"I cannot think straight anymore. But Mom and Dad love you so much, and they were dying inside after you went somewhere we cannot go," he paused, "In the end, it was my fault. I am sorry I killed you."

He left the lone candle, melting and burning its remaining life, highlighting the unnamed gravestone.

Like a shattered plate, the fragments of the moon above were not enough to illuminate his way back to the front door. Daniel trod the dying lawn, head limped down, confused, frustrated, and self-pitying. He locked the door behind him, climbed upstairs, reclined on his mattress, and shut his eyes with a tear streaming down to his left temple.