My childhood was vastly unremarkable. When I reflect, I can hardly remember anything before the age of seven, and even those memories are scattered in loose, intangible fragments. My childhood can be defined by three distinct scents: incense, dust, and my mother, who always smelt of fresh linen. 

One of my earliest memories was in the church; I remember my feet would always dangle off a wooden pew, kicking in an upbeat cadence. My mother would bring me to my knees and gently whisper, "Ask for repentance from the Lord, he who is all merciful." I would nod sheepishly, clasp my hands, adjusting my knees in stiff, mechanical movements. Mother would coax me with praises; my focus would shift to my knees, concentrating on how they ached from kneeling against the hard, polished wood. 

My mother was a religious woman. Church every morning, confession every week, prayer every hour. God was the centre of her life; every year of every month of every week of every day of every hour of every second was for, and could only be for, God. 

Unfortunately, my mother's faith wasn't genetic; I couldn't understand prayer. During the gospel, my eyes would linger person to person in the clergy, inspecting how my neighbors would muffle their sobs, all of them praying for the Lord's mercy. And when the time came, the worshippers would empty their wallets, dumping cheques, bills, and loose change hastily into dusty, velvet pouches. Maybe God's repentance could be sold at a cost. Maybe their donations did something for their sins. 

During church, I would mainly watch my mother, inspecting her pale, cracked lips as they muttered hurried prayers. She was the most scared of God's wrath. She lived in constant fear because of it. 

Cain, my mother named me after the tragic biblical story of Cain and Abel. It was a sad thing, really. My name was connected to a murderer from birth. It didn't bother me much in kindergarten, though. The other children hadn't heard of the story yet, and the adults around me knew better than to comment on the absurdity of my name. 

However, in elementary school, I became aware of how "taboo" sounding my name was, especially growing up in a predominantly catholic neighborhood. I have a vague recollection of how I would raise my hand, timidly saying "present" during morning attendance. I would brace for the giggles of my classmates; I was convinced my cheeks were permanently stained red from how much they burned every morning. Luckily, I didn't have a brother; I was blessed in not having an "Abel."

From elementary school onwards, my school and social life all blur into one giant haze, with no distinct memories other than fleeting scenes at the playground or being taught stories like David and Goliath, and other miscellaneous tales during Bible class. However, one thing that followed me throughout my childhood was my sleeptalking. 

From the moment I could speak, every night I would wake up to myself sleeptalking. Sometimes I would catch myself reciting the Lord's prayer, slurring my words before jolting awake. What was interesting was that I would find myself saying things in my sleep that I was taught in school, like when I learnt about healthy eating, I would whisper, "meat", or "nutritious."

I had even turned it into a game. When I had learnt about emotions, I wrote down "love", "kindness", and "joy" on my hand in felt pen. That night, I heard myself whisper, "jealousy", "sadness", and "hate." It was thrilling. I eventually learnt to tune out my sleeptalking, though it only truly left when I went into middle school. 

My parents are divorced, and my mother would never mention my father to me. Once at the table, we had been eating in silence; I was weakly scraping my spoon on the side of my bowl while my mother emptily gazed at me. Suddenly, and for no real reason, I asked, "Mother, what was my father like?" She looked at me before her face contorted into hate. She slammed her fist on the table, making my body flinch back instinctively. 

"Don't you dare ask me about that traitor. Your father betrayed our church, our town, and your own mother." She spat out viciously. She quickly rose out of her chair, approaching me aggressively. I felt fear paralyse my body, I quickly spat out, "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry." Her furrowed eyebrows soon eased, and her hand swiftly grabbed her rosary. She then closed her eyes before taking a deep breath, quickly finding her natural demeanor.

 "Father, forgive me." She said after a moment, her dull, lifeless eyes looked up at the roof, trying to find some solace with the ceiling light. She gazed at me again, "Cain, don't ever ask me about your father again. Do you understand?"  

— 

It was a cool summer's day when my dad came to take me. He abruptly barged into the house, armed with a squad of lawyers. I don't remember or understand much from the event, but seeing my mother's pale, distraught face told me that my leaving was probably not something she had anticipated. I still remember it now. She put up no fight, gave me one dry, soulless kiss on the side of my temple before sitting at the dining table, muttering prayers meant for God and God only. 

My dad didn't tell me why I had to leave my mother; he would just emphasise that "this was for the better," and we were going to "start over." He also started calling me Caleb, not Cain. He said it was because I reminded him of his best friend, who was named Caleb. 

He enrolled me in a new school, and all the teachers addressed me as Caleb, so my classmates called me Caleb, my friends knew me as Caleb, and soon, I also knew myself as Caleb. After moving in with my dad, my sleeptalking had ceased completely, and I could feel myself slowly forgetting my small-town life with my mother. However, just as a precaution, I would always have a sleep talking app installed on my phone, in case it ever returns.

—

I had just graduated from high school when I got the postcard, which read: "To my dearest Cain" in delicate American cursive. My mother had invited me home for the weekend to celebrate my graduation and my eighteenth birthday. The more I wanted to refuse the offer, the more detailed my mother's pale, distraught face became in my mind. I imagined what she looked like now, her pale face littered with wrinkles and her eyes sunken in. I imagined her eating alone at the dining table. I imagined her linen scent. I asked God for an answer. 

—

My mother welcomed me with open arms, "Cain, my handsome boy, you're all grown up." She embraced me tightly; her cold hands made me recoil from her touch. I slightly cringed at her calling me Cain; she was calling someone I didn't recognise. 

That night, I told her about my life, how school was going, and what I wanted to study in university. She just nodded the entire time, one hand firmly holding her rosary, her fingers slipping past each bead unconsciously. 

Before I headed to bed, she grasped my hands firmly, confessing, "I have made one grave mistake in my life. God will never forgive me." My mother took my face in the palm of her hand. "I chose the wrong name for you, my dear child." 

She closed her eyes, whispering, "My poor Cain, you do not deserve this torment." 

But before I could respond, she left, a melancholic expression pressed in her eyes, bidding me goodnight. 

—

In bed, I hear myself sleeptalking again, my body jerks me awake. I check my phone. There's a notification from Snore Lab. I unlock my phone and open the application. At first, it was static; my breathing was a slow and steady cadence. My thumb idly slides over the audio file, going to the parts with the most noise, marked by a slight jagged line at around 3 am. My speaking was muffled, making my eyebrows furrow in annoyance. I turn back the recording, placing the phone directly in my ear. The static was louder now, but I could hear it. A door creaks open, soft footsteps. And a quiet, "Welcome home, brother."

"Cain." I hear my voice from the corner of my room.