Chapter 1
2554words
"Mike, eat something." Sarah's voice came softly from beside me, as if afraid to disturb something fragile between us.
I didn't move, nor did I answer. Answering required strength, the effort to draw air from my chest, but my lungs seemed already filled with a cold, inert gas. I simply raised the mug and took another sip of coffee. The scalding liquid slid down my throat, yet it brought no warmth. There were only the two of us in the kitchen, but the space was filled with an invisible, dense substance called silence. This silence cut deeper than any hysterical argument ever could.
"I fried eggs, and that bacon you like." She was still trying, her tone almost pleading.
I could feel her gaze lingering on me, with a hint of cautious anticipation. I knew I should turn my head, say thank you, or even just offer a perfunctory smile. A normal husband would do that. A father who hadn't let his daughter die right before his eyes would do that. But I wasn't that man. I was just Michael Sullivan, a living monument engraved with unforgivable guilt.
"Coffee is enough," I finally spoke, my voice hoarse as if squeezed through a rusted pipe. My gaze remained glued to the branches outside the window, as if some cosmic mystery were hidden there. Perhaps there really was. In some theories, time isn't linear; it branches like a tree, and every choice could lead to a whole new world. A world where Lily was still alive.
"Today is... you know." Sarah's voice trembled slightly. "I think we should go see her together."
"Hmm." I responded with a vague grunt.
"Then... let's leave at nine? I want to bring a bunch of her favorite sunflowers." She seemed to interpret my grunt as tacit approval, her voice showing a faint hint of resolve.
I thumped the cup heavily on the table, a few drops of coffee splashing out, leaving dark stains on the wooden surface. The word "we" pricked my festering nerves like a needle, precise and sharp. There was no "we" anymore. It had ceased to exist the moment that truck lost control and careened onto the sidewalk. Now, there was only her, and me—imprisoned by the past.
"I have something to do at the library today," I said, without looking at her. I knew I couldn't. If I saw the disappointment and hurt in her eyes, my already fragile defenses might crumble in an instant.
The air in the kitchen froze instantly. That brief, fragile vitality was strangled by my words. I could hear her faint, suppressed inhalation, as if my words had choked her.
"What's the matter?" Her voice grew slightly sharper. "Mike, do you remember what day it is? What could possibly be more important than this at the library?"
"Inventory check. The new assistant knows nothing, so I have to keep an eye on things." I lied without changing my expression. Lies had become my armor, the only tool I could wield adeptly. Every word was meticulously crafted to sound firm and indisputable.
"You always have an excuse, Mike." Her voice was filled with exhaustion, the kind of emptiness that comes from being drained repeatedly. "It's always about the library. It was like this a year ago, and it's still the same now. What exactly are you running from?"
What was I hiding from? I was hiding from myself. From that afternoon—if I hadn't been distracted by a stupid work call, if I had held her little hand tightly, if I could have pulled her back just one second earlier... Countless "ifs" circled like vultures in my mind, pecking away at my soul day and night. How could I tell her this? Tell her that I replayed the scene of that day in my mind every day, trying to find a moment that could change the outcome? Tell her that I was frantically searching through all that nonsense about time travel and parallel universes, just for a fleeting possibility? She would think I was crazy. Maybe I already was.
"I'm not hiding from anything, Sarah. It's just work." I stood up, took the cup to the sink, turned on the faucet, and let the cold water rinse the inside. "You go ahead, I'll join you after I'm done."
Another lie. I wouldn't go. The cemetery was the end, the final declaration where the dust settled. But I refused to accept this conclusion. In my heart, everything remained unresolved.
A soft sound of a chair being dragged came from behind, followed by footsteps. Sarah walked up behind me and paused. I could sense her hesitation, her inner struggle. Perhaps she wanted to reach out and hug me, or maybe she wanted to say something more. But in the end, she did nothing.
"Then I'll go." Her voice was soft, like a feather, weightless as it drifted down and disappeared.
The door opened gently and closed just as softly. The click of the latch returning to its place echoed in the silent house. I turned off the faucet, and the entire world fell into silence. I didn't turn around, just leaned against the cold sink, my shoulders slumping uncontrollably. The facade of indifference and toughness—like a thin layer of ice—shattered the moment Sarah left. The pain, suppressed deep in my chest, so heavy it almost suffocated me, surged like a flood, instantly engulfing me. I hunched over, my hands gripping the countertop, my knuckles whitening from the force. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out, only a rush of scorching air escaped my throat, like a silent wail.
The library was so quiet you could hear dust settling on the shelves. I liked this kind of silence. It was like a thick layer of felt, shutting out the noisy, unpredictable world outside. Here, everything was in order. Every book stayed in its rightful place according to the Dewey Decimal Classification, and every library card recorded time down to the minute. Order gave me a false sense of security, as if by controlling the arrangement of these books, I could control the chaos of my own life.
But today, even this order failed me.
"Mr. Sullivan?" The new assistant, a young girl named Tina, timidly leaned over. "Should these books on medieval theology go in the religion section or the history section?"
I raised my head, and it took a fraction of a second for my gaze to shift from a row of old books on quantum physics to focus on her face. Her face bore the youthful innocence unique to adolescence, untouched by the trials of life. It reminded me of Lily. This thought flashed by, and my heart felt as if an invisible hand had clenched it.
"What does the label say?" My voice came out harsher than I had intended.
"Uh... 240, Christian Theology," she said softly.
"Then put it in the 200 section." I lowered my head and looked back at the book in my hand, not wanting to see her innocent face any longer.
"Okay." She stepped back, visibly relieved.
The words on the page danced before my eyes, yet failed to enter my mind. String theory, multidimensional universes, time loops... these theories that once kept me up at night now appeared as nothing more than meaningless ink stains. Every faint sound was amplified endlessly. The rustling of pages turned by distant readers, the soft thuds of book spines against shelves as Tina organized the books, even the occasional honk of a car outside—each sound struck my nerves like a hammer. Every noise made me instinctively tense up, as if the next sound could come at any moment—the sound I could never forget: the screech of brakes and the crash.
I irritably closed the book and stuffed it back onto the shelf. I couldn't focus at all. My thoughts were like a tangled mess of broken threads, each strand connected to that drizzly afternoon. I walked to the window and looked down at the bustling street below. Everyone hurried along, moving toward their futures. But my future had shattered that day.
"Mike, are you okay? You don't look well." Mr. Thompson, the old curator, had somehow appeared beside me. His cloudy but kind eyes showed a hint of concern.
"Just a bit of a cold, it's nothing." I forced a smile, trying to appear normal.
"Today is..." He sighed and patted my shoulder. "Don't push yourself too hard. If you need to, just go home and rest early."
His sympathy was like salt sprinkled on an open wound. I detested this sympathy. It constantly reminded me that I was a pitiable failure.
"Thank you, Mr. Thompson. I'll tidy up a bit more and then leave." I politely stepped back and turned toward another row of bookshelves.
I didn't tidy up any further. I simply wandered aimlessly between the bookshelves, like a lost ghost searching for an exit. Finally, I could no longer endure this self-inflicted torment in a public space. After informing Tina, I left the library early.
The car sped along the road home, the streetscape rapidly receding. I didn't go to the cemetery. I went straight home—to that empty, icy house. Pushing open the door, the familiar, suffocating silence hit me once again. I didn't turn on the lights, allowing myself to stand in the darkness of the entrance. The house still retained Sarah's scent from when she left that morning—a blend of her perfume and sorrow.
I took off my coat and, instead of hanging it up as usual, casually tossed it onto the sofa. Then, step by step, as if drawn by some invisible force, I walked toward the door that had barely been opened since the accident.
Lily's room.
My hand rested on the doorknob, the cold metal making me hesitate. Pushing open this door felt like tearing open a wound I had deliberately avoided. But I knew I had to do it. Only here could I feel closest to her. I took a deep breath and turned the knob.
Everything in the room remained exactly as it was the day she left. The pink walls were adorned with glow-in-the-dark stars and a moon. Her favorite fairy tale books were neatly arranged on the bookshelf. The faded teddy bear by the bed stared at me quietly with its black plastic eyes. The air was filled with a mix of dust and a faint sweet scent—the essence of a seven-year-old girl, now preserved like a specimen of time.
I stepped inside, treading carefully, as if afraid to disturb the memories slumbering there. Sunlight squeezed through the gaps in the blinds, casting long, narrow beams of light onto the cartoon-patterned rug. Within those beams, countless specks of dust danced like lost sprites.
My gaze eventually landed on her small desk. The white desk where she once leaned over to draw, do crafts, and clumsily write her name. In the corner sat a brown cardboard box, covered in a thin layer of dust. My heart began to race. I knew what was inside. It was some of Lily's belongings that Sarah had sorted out after the incident.
I walked over, pulled out the chair, and sat down. The little chair was too short for me—my knees pressed against the edge of the table, making my posture awkward and pitiful. But I didn't care. I reached out, my fingertips lightly brushing over the dusty lid of the box. The cold, rough texture sent a shiver through my body. It took a great deal of effort to finally muster the courage to open the box.
Inside, there wasn't much. A few of her drawings showing the three of us as a family, with the sun always smiling. A small lock of her baby hair tied with a red string. And her first milk tooth, stored in a tiny glass bottle. Each item was like a sharp knife, slicing through my nerves. My vision blurred, but I forced myself not to let the tears fall. I couldn't cry. Crying was a release, and I didn't deserve any form of relief.
My fingers fumbled inside the box, touching something cylindrical and slightly cold. I took it out.
It was a kaleidoscope. Last Christmas, I'd helped her make it ourselves. We used a cardboard tube, some cheap plastic lenses, and colored glass fragments she had collected herself. The craftsmanship was rough, the edges of the tube slightly crooked, with traces of glue overflowing at the seams. She had been immensely proud of this creation, carrying it everywhere and eager to show everyone the "magical world" she had created.
I held it up to my eye, just as I had done countless times a year ago. The sunlight happened to be shining through the window, passing through the slits of the blinds, directly hitting the bottom of the kaleidoscope. I closed one eye and pressed the other to the peephole.
In an instant, the whole world transformed.
Those originally chaotic and cheap shards of colored glass, under the repeated refraction of three mirrors, formed symmetrical and dazzling patterns. Deep blue, blazing red, bright yellow, clear green... countless fragmented color blocks rearranged themselves, blooming into mesmerizing beauty. They intertwined and overlapped, creating one perfect geometric marvel after another.
I slowly turned the paper tube. With every degree, the world inside would collapse, only to reassemble into a brand-new, equally perfect pattern. Shattered, then reborn. Destroyed, then created. Over and over, endlessly.
"Daddy, look! I've put all the stars inside!" Lily's crisp laughter seemed to echo in my ears again.
My hand froze, and my heart raced uncontrollably. I gazed at that pattern composed of countless fragments, so symmetrical it seemed almost divine. A wild, bold idea, like a bolt of lightning, sliced through my chaotic thoughts.
What if... what if time itself was also a kaleidoscope? What if our world, our reality, was also made up of countless fragments of "now"? If I just found the right angle, if I gently turned it, could I rearrange those broken, irreparable pieces into a perfect, brand-new pattern? A pattern where Lily still stood by my side, smiling and saying, "Look, Dad"?
Sunlight passed through the glass of the kaleidoscope, refracting a strange, rainbow-like halo onto the rough paper tube in my hands. The light was so surreal yet so enticing. I stared intently at that beam of light, as if gazing at a gateway to another world. My breathing grew rapid, and my entire body seemed to boil with excitement over this absurd yet hopeful thought.
I gripped the kaleidoscope tightly, the rough edge of the paper tube digging painfully into my palm. But that pain paled in comparison to the fervor burning within me. I wouldn't go to the cemetery. I wouldn't say goodbye. I would piece together those shattered fragments of time.
I must.
