Chapter 9

713words2026-01-19 05:23

The next morning, as I came downstairs, there was no familiar, explosive tension in the air. Instead, there was a faint aroma of toast. Mom stood in the kitchen, her back to me, putting a second slice of bread into the toaster. Her movements were somewhat stiff, not as practiced as Grandma Williams. Our toaster had been gathering dust for a long time. She was preparing breakfast for me. This thought left me stunned at the foot of the stairs.

At the dining table, Dad sat with a newspaper in his hand, but he wasn’t reading it. His gaze was fixed on the center of the table, next to the opened letter. The letter had been folded back up, but the edges were wrinkled, showing signs of being repeatedly handled. The house was unusually quiet, but not with that suffocating coldness. It was more like the cautious calm after a blizzard, when everything had just settled down.

I walked over, pulled out a chair and sat down. No one spoke. Mom placed a piece of toast and a glass of milk in front of me, the plate making a soft sound as it touched the table. She glanced at me, her lips moving slightly, but ultimately said nothing and just sat down across from me. I picked up the toast and took a bite. It was a bit burnt, but warm, and the savory butter melted in my mouth, warming all the way to my stomach.

Dad put down his newspaper. “I heard you got an A+ in history?” he began, his voice somewhat dry. “Smith isn’t an easy teacher to please.” I looked up, surprised. How did he know? Did Mom tell him? Had they… started communicating again?

“…It was okay,” I mumbled vaguely. He nodded, not pressing further, but the atmosphere at the dining table seemed to thaw just a little bit.

In the days that followed, it was as if some magical switch had been flipped. Walking down the street, the old man next door who always wore a stern face would actively say “Good morning” to me. On my way home from school, I saw Mrs. Hoffman from the street corner carrying two large bags, breathing heavily, and I inexplicably walked up to her: “Need any help?” She paused for a moment, then handed me one of the bags, her face showing that genuine smile I had only ever seen on Grandma Williams’s face: “Oh, Emily, thank you. What a good child.”

At school, the corridor was no longer filled with air that ignored me. Some people would nod at me, others would say “Hey, Emily.” The history class representative even came over during lunch break to ask me about several key points of the Battle of Midway. I repeated the “God’s perspective” that I had heard from Jack, and she listened with sparkling eyes. Mr. Smith called me to his office, not to criticize me, but to hand me a university history department brochure. “Take a look at this, Emily,” he said. “I think you’ll be interested. Keep it up, you’re on the right path.” I held that smooth brochure with its ink fragrance, feeling as though I was holding a future I had never imagined before.

Everything was getting better. Even the air at home was becoming gentler. Dad had started chatting with me about baseball games, and Mom would bring me a cup of hot milk when I stayed up late. Between them, although they still rarely talked, at least they now sat together on the sofa to watch TV. Once, I even saw Dad hand Mom a peeled apple. Mom took it and took a bite. Standing at my bedroom door, looking at that peaceful scene in the living room, I felt like I was watching a slow-motion silent film. I had become the glue of this family. A glue that was seen, needed, and loved.

I nestled in the “throne” of my secret base, with sunlight shining through the hole in the roof, falling on my knees, warm and cozy. I suddenly understood what Jack had said. He said he couldn’t change the timeline. Perhaps he couldn’t change the date of my death. But he had already changed my life. And that was enough.