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There hadn't been anyone waiting for him after school that day.
The bell had rung out, and plenty of kids had walked off in the hands of their parents, or in one of the cars in the half-crescent pick up. Goro was one of the few lingering behind, standing like a rock between the splitting waves of children that chose to walk home instead.
It wasn't like he hadn't walked before. When his mother was sick, she’d stayed home and given him thorough directions to their apartment on paper instead. He frowns after his third sweep over the empty playground and there's no low chestnut ponytail or light brown winter coat.
Goro zips his own coat up to his chin, shuffling to dip his head into the warmth. The snow crunches lightly under his feet as he walks the now empty pavement.
He’s made up his mind, that the only logical solution was that his mother had caught a cold. It was winter now, and when the heater broke last week, she’d given her comforter to Goro. When he’s sick in bed, she makes hot chicken-noodle soup and brings it to his room in one of the big mugs from the cabinet. He’ll have to bring tissues, too- and grab all the blankets from his bed.
By the time he finishes his plan, he’s at the crosswalk across from the apartment building. Even the ivy permanently spidering up the bricks seems a little crinkled and frost-bitten. Usually, he doesn't cross without his mom, but he looks left, then right, then left again, just like she tells him to.
The metal stairs clang beneath Goro’s feet as he comes up to the rusted door with his mother's initials taped to the front. He pushes open the door and almost announces his arrival until the thought of his stuffy-nosed mother flashes in his mind. He closes the front door as quietly as he manages and toes off his shoes next to his mom's own.
Goro can’t quite reach the microwave, so one of the chairs at the kitchen table is pulled over in front of the stove. He peels back the pop-tab lid of the soup and pours the noodles and broth into the mug held carefully with his left hand. The can says a minute-thirty. 1:30 is punched into the number pad, and it begins to spin on the hot plate.
Tissues, he thinks as he jumps from the chair. There’s an open box on the coffee table, but he grabs an extra from the pantry just in case. Goro opens the microwave before it's set to beep, in case his mother was sleeping, and gently sets it on the counter. The chair is quietly pushed to its original position.
When he reaches for a fork, he finds the silverware drawer already ajar. He must have opened it already and forgot, he concludes, and sets one in the mug. Carefully, he balances one tissue box on the other and grabs the mug with his free hand.
The walk to his mother's room is short, but Goro makes sure to take his time, so as to not spill the soup. To his surprise, a yellow light emanates from under the crack in the door, and the shadow of his mother's feet can be seen in a dip of the light.
The day his mother had gotten sick, she'd pushed to pick him up, until even he had tucked her back into bed. Still, she worked from her computer, too stubborn to truly rest. She must be working even now. Goro shakes his head; it's her turn to be taken care of.
“Mom?” Goro calls in place of a knock. The door creaks open a bit with a bump, and he can see her legs, and then her hands at her side. “I’m going to come in now, okay? I made soup for you!”
The second push is met with resistance, the thud of wood-on-wood halting the door from opening. He tries again, and a fallen chair peeks from behind the edge of the door. He wonders if she’d gotten up in a rush, maybe to hide that she was working, even when she's sick. He’ll make sure she gets plenty of rest, now that he's home.
When the door yawns open further, Goro’s eyes first catch the rest of the fallen chair blocking the path. Then, they wander to his mother’s knees, up onto her desk full of scattered papers and a spilled cup. To her hips, and the unmade bed just behind her. To her stomach, her arms, her shoulders.
“Huh?” He asks the face staring down at him. He looks at the neck, stretched and sloped at a funny angle. “Mom?”
He looks at the rope swaying from a beam in the ceiling, trailing all the way into a knot around his mother's neck. “What are…you doing?” The face staring at him doesn't smile. The arms don't open for a welcoming hug. They only swing slowly to the rhythm set by the rope.
“What are you doing up there, Mom?”
She doesn't answer him.