Äiti : $b Romaani

In a storm‑battered little chapel, a mother watches her son Paulo slip silently into the night, her heart thudding with a mix of maternal worry and unsettling superstition. The walls pulse with the relentless thunder, while she fumbles with a cracked lamp, trying to summon a weak glow that will keep the darkness at bay. Her thoughts whirl between practical concerns—wet hands, a locked gate—and the more irrational fear that some malevolent force prowls the shutters, waiting to slip inside.

Through fragile candlelight, she catches fleeting images of Paulo—once a shy, trembling boy, now shadowed in a black coat that seems both frail and oddly imposing. The house feels alive, its creaking timbers echoing the storm outside, and the mother’s desperation grows as she hears his footsteps fade onto the cold steps. Yet she remains rooted, caught between the urge to shout his name and an invisible pressure that holds her in place, leaving listeners wondering how far her fear will drive her next.