Chapter 3
2389words
"Dad, what's wrong? Your face is so pale." Lily hopped on one foot to stand before me, tilting her head and examining me with her clear, worried eyes. "Are you feeling unwell again?"
Her voice, her vibrant demeanor, every detail was like a knife coated with honey, plunging into my heart and then ruthlessly twisting. I saved her. I really saved her. The brief ecstasy brought by this thought was instantly drowned by the boundless chill emanating from the figure sitting in the wheelchair across from me.
"I... I'm fine." I finally found my voice, hoarse and unrecognizable. "I just... feel a bit tired."
"That's just how he is, always spacing out since the accident." Sarah maneuvered her wheelchair over with practiced ease, clearly having fully adapted to this means of movement over the past year. She stopped beside me and gently placed her hand over mine, her palm warm and dry. "Mike, don't think too much. Today is a special day, but we're still here, aren't we? That's what matters most."
Her words were as gentle as a feather, yet they stirred up a stormy sea within my heart. An accident? We're all here? What kind of year had I missed?
"Yes, we're all here!" Lily chimed in, using her uninjured leg to affectionately rub against my pant leg. "It's just this annoying cast! The doctor said it can be removed next week, and then I'll definitely go kick the ball in the yard!"
"That's not possible, Lily," Sarah immediately put on a stern face, but her voice was filled with affection. "Even after the cast is removed, you'll need to rest and recover for a month. Have you forgotten how worried Dad was when you broke your leg?"
My breath caught. I needed to know. I had to know. I forced myself to look up, meeting Sarah's gaze, and tried to keep my voice from trembling: "That day... what exactly happened? I... I can't remember some of the details."
A flash of astonishment crossed Sarah's eyes, quickly replaced by understanding. "You're just under too much pressure, Mike. I know you've been blaming yourself." She sighed, as if she had repeated this narrative countless times before. "You reacted so quickly that day. Your shout saved Lily's life, really. She was startled by you and stopped in her tracks—the truck only grazed her leg and knocked her down. If you hadn't shouted, I can't even imagine the consequences."
Every word she spoke confirmed my wild guess. I had succeeded; I had intervened in the past.
"Then... what about you?" I asked with difficulty, my gaze involuntarily falling on her legs covered by the blanket.
The gentle smile on Sarah's face froze for a moment, a shadow flickered across her eyes, but it quickly disappeared. "I was waiting for you and Lily to cross the road, wanting to surprise you since I left work early," she narrated calmly, as if telling someone else's story. "The truck driver, trying to avoid Lily who suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, swerved sharply... The vehicle lost control and veered onto the sidewalk. That's how it happened."
That's how it happened.
Three words, light as a breeze, yet bearing the weight of a woman's happiness for the rest of her life. I looked at her calm face, and my stomach churned violently. What had I done? What had I truly done? In trying to save one person, I had destroyed another. I had traded my wife's legs in an equivalent exchange. And she, the woman I had personally pushed into the abyss, was still comforting me, telling me not to blame myself. This pained me a thousand times more than any accusation or curse. A guilt deeper and thicker than when I lost Lily, like cement, solidified me firmly in place.
"It's all in the past, Mike." Sarah patted my hand. "Look, aren't we doing well now? And this new house is great, isn't it? A single floor, no stairs—it's much more convenient for me."
A new house? I looked around and realized in horror that this room, this home, was entirely unfamiliar to me. The color of the walls, the arrangement of the furniture, the view outside the window—none of it matched my memories. We had moved. Because Sarah was disabled, we had relocated to a one-story house designed for wheelchair accessibility. And I, an invader from "another timeline," knew nothing about it.
"Yeah... it's great," I said dryly. I felt like a clumsy actor, forced to play a role I knew nothing about—a caring, post-disaster "good husband."
The next few days, I lived in a waking nightmare. I struggled to embody the "me" who had lived in this world for a year—Michael Sullivan. Every morning, I prepared breakfast for Sarah and helped her move from the bed to her wheelchair, a process I performed awkwardly and stiffly because I had no idea how to do it properly.
"Mike, what's wrong with you today? You seem distracted," Sarah asked worriedly when I almost let her slip from the wheelchair again. "Are you too tired from work?"
"N-no, I just didn't sleep well," I hurriedly supported her, my heart pounding. I was afraid of being exposed. I was terrified they would discover that the husband and father before them was an impostor from another world.
"Then don't go to the library today. Stay home and rest," she said understandingly. "Anyway, I've already taken care of this month's bills, and we have enough supplies at home."
I watched her skillfully operate the tablet, dealing with utility bills and online shopping orders. In this world, she had taken on more household responsibilities because the original "me" had clearly spent more time taking care of her after her accident, and she, in turn, had found ways to share my burdens. This realization made me even more ashamed.
I wandered like a ghost through this unfamiliar "home." I opened every cabinet, entered every room, trying to find familiar traces, but all I found was more strangeness. On the wall hung a photo of the three of us, with a beach I had never visited as the backdrop. In the photo, Sarah sat in a wheelchair, beaming brightly, with Lily nestled beside her. And I, the "me" in the photo, stood behind them, holding them, with a smile on my face that I couldn't decipher—a mix of exhaustion and feigned strength.
I was a monster. A monster who stole someone else's life and ruined it.
The only solace, or rather, the only lifeline, was the kaleidoscope. I hid it deep inside my study, in a locked drawer. Every night, after Sarah and Lily had fallen asleep, I would sneak it out like an addict.
I locked myself in the dark study, trying over and over again. I attempted to recreate the intense emotions of that afternoon. I closed my eyes and forced myself to recall the image of Lily lying in a pool of blood, the heart-wrenching pain, the regret. I held the kaleidoscope up to my eyes, facing the only desk lamp, and frantically turned it.
"Go back... let me go back..." I whispered to the cold peephole, my voice trembling with suppressed emotion.
But nothing happened.
The kaleidoscope still held those beautiful, symmetrical patterns, which continuously shattered and reassembled as I turned it, as if relentlessly mocking my futility. The dizziness did not return, and the sensation of my soul being drawn away had vanished. It had become an ordinary, mundane creation from Lily's handicraft class, with only one difference—the tiny crack on the lens. Uneasily, I noticed that the crack seemed to have expanded just a bit more than when I first discovered it, like a black line slowly spreading across the surface of ice.
Why? Why wasn't it working? Was I not suffering enough? Or was my desire not strong enough? I tried again and again, and failed repeatedly. Each failure plunged me deeper into despair. I began to frantically research, no longer focusing on philosophical discussions about parallel universes, but turning to more concrete, even absurd pseudoscientific theories. I bought a pile of books on telekinesis, bio-magnetism, and quantum entanglement, stacking them on my desk like a deranged alchemist, trying to find the key to unlocking that door amidst the nonsense.
"Emotion... resonance... memory imprint..." I was highlighting key points in the book with my pen while murmuring the words to myself. I was beginning to believe that the kaleidoscope itself wasn't the key—it was merely a medium, an antenna. What truly mattered was the intense surge of emotion that had erupted within me that afternoon, condensing all my love and regret. It resonated with the kaleidoscope that had carried Lily's pure joy, like two tuning forks vibrating at the same frequency, tearing through the fabric of time.
"It must be possible, there must still be a way..." I was so obsessed with my research that I ignored the passage of time and the change outside the window from midnight to dawn. Every bit of "happiness" this new world brought me felt like salt, repeatedly rubbing against my wounds. Seeing Lily's lively smile reminded me of Sarah's paralyzed legs. Seeing Sarah's gentle understanding reminded me of my despicable secret. I couldn't bear this kind of life. I just couldn't.
Late at night. The entire house was immersed in silence, with only the occasional low hum of the refrigerator. I sat under the desk lamp in the study, with a book titled "Entangled Reality: How Consciousness Shapes the Universe" spread open in front of me. The pages were filled with various coined terms and untestable theories, but in my eyes, they seemed like divine revelations.
"...According to the hypothesis of superstring theory, the universe is not a singular existence but is composed of countless parallel 'branes.' Under specific conditions, powerful conscious energy—a highly condensed flow of emotional particles—can temporarily weaken the barriers between branes, causing 'quantum tunneling' of information, thus..."
I was engrossed in reading, trying to comprehend these profound and esoteric words when the door to the study was gently pushed ajar.
"Daddy?" Lily stood at the door, her eyes drowsy, clutching her teddy bear. "My leg hurts, and I can't sleep."
I immediately closed the book, my impatience and obsession instantly replaced by paternal love. I walked over and picked her up. She was noticeably heavier than a year ago, but I could still lift her with ease.
"Is it itchy inside the cast?" I asked softly, carrying her toward her room.
"It's not itching, it's inside... near the bones, it feels sore and achy." She leaned her head on my shoulder, her voice quivering with tears.
Was it growing pains or a normal reaction during bone healing? I didn't know. In this world, I had missed those initial days after her injury, missed all the doctor's instructions. Once again, I felt that sense of panic and helplessness as an "impostor."
I held her and slowly paced around the room, gently patting her back, just like when she was a child. I hummed her favorite lullaby, the melody particularly clear in the quiet night. Lily's emotions gradually calmed, and her breathing became even.
I walked to her bed, ready to lay her down. By the faint light from the corridor, I saw Sarah asleep on the other bed.
She lay on her side, her face calm and peaceful. Even in her sleep, her brows seemed slightly furrowed, as if bearing some unknown pain. The thin blanket covering her legs gently rose and fell with her breath. Her legs, those once capable of carrying her across the grass and twirling her in ballrooms, now lay still, useless, even a burden that needed care.
And all of this, because of me.
I looked down at the sleeping Lily in my arms. Her little face was flushed, her long lashes like two tiny fans, resting quietly. Her life, her vitality, her future—all of it was bought by trading Sarah's happiness.
I was a thief. A despicable thief who used my wife's legs as ransom to redeem my daughter from death.
I gently laid Lily back in her own little bed and tucked her in. Then, I straightened up, my gaze lingering between my daughter and my wife. Love and guilt, salvation and destruction, happiness and pain—these two extremes of emotion and reality coexisted in this tiny room, tearing my soul in half.
I couldn't accept this ending. I couldn't let Sarah pay the price for my selfishness and weakness.
I returned to the study, picked up that pseudo-scientific book again, and traced my fingers over the words "quantum entanglement." A thought even more insane and audacious than before, like a thunderclap in the night, formed in my mind, burning with guilt.
The first time, I only wanted to save Lily—a pure, desperate, instinctive love.
This time, it was different.
That afternoon, at the street corner, there were three people. Me, Lily, and Sarah across the street. I only altered Lily's fate, never expecting it to affect Sarah. This was a mistake, a miscalculation.
There must be a way. There must be a perfect fulcrum, a perfect moment, a perfect way to intervene.
I didn't need one tragedy to replace another.
What I needed was an outcome where no one got hurt.
A perfect afternoon where the three of us could stand there unharmed.
Slowly, I turned my gaze toward the locked drawer. Inside was not just a kaleidoscope. It was my tool, my key, and my only hope.
I would try again.
This time, I would not act solely on love and regret. I would also proceed with calculation, strategy, and a precise strike on that spacetime coordinate.
I had to find that perfect way.
I had to find it.
