He woke to the smell of sauce graine.

  Again.

  But this time, the scent, once warm, once beloved, felt different. Not like comfort. Like a warning.

  His stomach growled, but his chest tightened.

  Not again…

  He sat up slowly, blinking against the midday light that bled through the window slats. His fingers curled against the floor mat. He breathed in again, hoping, begging, that it didn’t mean what he feared.

  “The smell doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered to himself. “Mama always cooks enough for two, three days. It could just be leftovers.”

  But something in his bones said no.

  Still, he walked toward the kitchen.

  With every step, his hope dimmed.

  She was humming.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  That same melodyless hum, like the rhythm of a life that never changed.

  “Well… she likes to hum,” he muttered, grasping at logic like rope. “That doesn’t mean anything either.”

  Then he turned the corner.

  Her back was straight. Her wrapper perfectly tied. The scent of oil, spice, and palm hit him like déjà vu sharpened into a blade.

  She didn’t turn at first.

  Then she said it—

  “Eh? So, you’re alive. Sit before you fall again.”

  The exact words.

  The same teasing tone.

  And with that, every last piece of hope he’d clung to crumbled inside him.

  But at least this time, he was prepared.

  He knew the signs now. The scent. The hum. The teasing words. This wasn’t surprise but confirmation. The loop had reset.

  And he needed to make a change.

  But what?

  His stomach answered first, roaring so loudly it cut his thoughts in half. He winced. He needed to eat. But then, a strange thought crept in.

  Eat? Right… What if I ask her to cook something else?

  He stepped into the kitchen, heartbeat oddly steady despite the dread.

  “Mama, I don’t want to eat foutou. I want something el—”

  Her head turned. Her eyes met his.

  Piercing.

  “Hm? What did you say?”

  “I… I said—”

  “Hm?”

  He flinched. “No, nothing.”

  “Tchrrr. The day you’ll have a wife, you can tell her you want something else.”

  “…”

  Well, he tried.

  Maybe it’ll still change something, he told himself as he sat down and began swallowing the foutou, again. Same texture, same spice, same sauce graine clinging like memory.

  He ate faster.

  Then choked… again.

  “Hey! Slow down! I know you’re hungry, but you’re not racing death.”

  She laughed, the same as before. The same timing. The same pitch.

  But this time, it didn’t feel warm.

  “I can understand that you’re hungry,” she said slowly… again. “After all, you didn’t eat anything yesterday. But don’t tell me that was really why you passed out. What happened? Was it the heat?”

  It felt like mockery.

  As if fate itself had watched his little rebellion, shrugged, and smiled.

  His first attempt had failed.

  I found out how to use italic with my phone!!!!??

  Some countries write it “tchip” but , well it’s not their novel ?????