The brush glided smoothly over the canvas, leaving a blooming stream of color in its wake.

He slowly dragged the brush down, putting on the finishing touches of the painting he was working on.

With dark grays, blacks and blues, it depicted the vague silhouette of a woman, standing in the rain. She was posed as if she would turn around to face the viewer any moment now, and it evoked an extremely haunting feeling.

It depicted his late mother, his very last positive memory of her, untainted by visions of white halls and hospital beds. The last memory he had of her before she fell sick with the illness that would take her life.

He put down his brush and simply breathed. The smell of paint hung heavy in the room, but it was familiar, something that had been there since he was just a child.

He tried to rub his face, but stopped short and groaned at the sight of paint all over his hands. He didn't feel like running into family members, so he tried to sneak his way out the bedroom door to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

He was beyond thankful that he succeeded.

As he was washing his hands in the sink, he caught sight of his face in the mirror.

And he looked tired.

It was the sort of tiredness that would usually never be- should never be- present on a fifteen-year-olds face.

But it wasn't just him. His entire family was slowly spiraling as well.

His father had a relapse of his depression, and was now asleep more than he was awake. His little sister seemed to swing between being concerningly loud or being concerningly quiet, usually within just a few minutes of the other.

No one could have predicted how their mother would go. What's worse was how swift it was.

No one even managed to say goodbye.

He shook away the morbid thoughts as he dried his hands, and quietly made his way back to his room.

He knew his family could hear him, and that they just ignored him. He shouldn't be so disappointed.

He was so tired.

He sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh.

He was so tired.

He couldn't sleep properly because of the visions of the white halls and too pale faces.

He was so-

He spotted a canvas that was shoved behind the frame of the bed.

For a moment, he couldn't remember what it was, but the memory hit him full force soon enough.

Against his better judgment, he carefully removed the painting and set it on his bed, resting it against the wall.

With bright colors, soft yellows, blues, pinks, it was the silhouette of a woman. But this time, she faced the viewer completely. Bright eyes and an even brighter smile, she was everything she should have been. She held in her hands a bundle of flowers of her namesake.

Lilies.

He felt tears well up in his eyes as he stared at the painting.

It was one of the very first full paintings he ever had the courage to do, evident by the wonky lines and the odd proportions of the field in the background.

But his mother loved it. She called him 'her little artist'.

He picked up the painting with shaky hands, and set it face down on his desk, far away from his bed.

Then he wrapped himself up in his blanket and went to sleep.

He spent the next few hours sobbing into the blanket.

He woke up to the smell of lilies.

It took him a while to register the pleasant smell, but the moment he did, he jolted awake. Nausea filled him, and he almost did give into it as he saw who was sitting at the end of the bed.

“Mason,” His mother smiled. “Sweetheart, you look tired. You should rest properly.”

No, this wasn't his mother. It couldn't be.

“Mason?”

It had her voice. It had her looks. It even had the way she would tilt her head whenever she was worried or confused.

It was painful.

“You- You're not my mom.” He scrambled back to the very edge of the bed, trying to put as much distance as he could to this thing that acted like his mom. “My mom is dead. You're not her.”

The thing smiled. “You're right.”

Mason stared at it.

“I'm not her, but I was born from your memories of her.” She motioned to his desk.

On it, the painting he had previously left face down was now standing upright, neatly leaning against the wall. But the woman in it was gone.

He belatedly realized that the woman in front of him didn't look right. Its skin had streaks that look like they came from a brush, and its hair didn't seem to be separate pieces, but just a clump of color that was styled a certain way. Its inhumanness grew by the second, and he did not know what to feel.

“Why?” He managed to question weakly.

The thing understood his question immediately. “Because you needed me, Mason,” It looked at him, eyes bright and gaze determined. Just like she did when she was alive. “Because you've been so brave, and now, you need a hug.”

Mason stared at her when she opened her arms. It was an awkward gesture, she didn't seem to be very used to moving her body, but she did so anyway. For her son.

He broke.

His mother softly carded her hands through his hair and whispered reassurances as he sobbed in her arms.

The months of pent up sadness and frustration seemed to have all erupted at this moment, soft and safe in the embrace of a memory of his mother. He felt sadness and loss, but there was happiness and hope as well.

“Sweetheart,” His mother whispered as she gently wiped his tears. “I can't stay.”

He felt a rush of anger at the declaration, but when she cupped his face between her hands and looked at him, anything he was about to say died on his tongue.

“I love you. I love you so, so much. I'm so sorry I left so early. I can't stay.”

He felt the tears well up again. “But it hurts.” He whined, just like a child. “It hurts so much.”

His mother also looked on the verge of tears. “I know, Sweetie, I know.”

“I miss you so much.”

“I know, Sweetie. I miss you too.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“I hope not, Sweetheart.”

He took a shaky breath and willed the tears to stop. “Will it ever stop hurting?”

“No, it would not. I don't think it ever does. Not fully, anyways.” His mother sighed softly. She kept carding her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp in the way she knew he loved. A soft reassurance.

“But I will always be here, next to you. Even if you can't see me. And,” She raised her voice, steely with determination. “You are not alone. You have your family too. They will always have your back, I know it.”

She pulled him forwards and rested their foreheads together. He closed his eyes and soaked in her presence, her touch.

“You will never be alone, Mason. Trust me.”

She moved back only to leave a kiss on his forehead.

“I love you, Mason.”

“I love you too, Mom.” He whispered as her hands left his face, and her presence slowly faded away.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone in the bedroom once more, and the painting was face down again.

The first rays of the morning sun slowly creeped into his room, and the smell of lilies slowly faded away.

But he got up and got dressed. Then, for the first time in weeks, he made his way down to the kitchen.

When his father came down thirty minutes later, he already had his morning coffee prepared.

When his sister came down, he had waffles with maple syrup and a glass of orange juice already prepared.

During breakfast, his sister was still quiet, but she ate all her food instead of tossing it out. His father gave him a tired smile and offered to clean up afterwards instead of staring blankly into space.

He was still tired.

But it hurt just a little bit less.

The cover image was created in Canva!