Chapter 8
2446words
It was not any kind of physical pain, not a broken bone, nor burning flesh. It was a more fundamental, indescribable torture. I felt my soul, that intangible entity built from memories, emotions, obsessions, and love, known as "Michael Sullivan," being forcibly ripped from the foundation of my existence by an invisible giant hand. All my struggles, all my regrets, all my madness, and all the surreal wonders I had witnessed through the cracks of time were compressed into a single burning, painful singularity at that moment—and then, utterly annihilated.
Just as the extreme pain and nothingness were about to completely engulf me, I abruptly opened my eyes.
I was back.
I was still sitting at Lily's small, white desk in her room. The sunlight outside filtered through the slits of the blinds, casting a few long streaks of light on the floor covered with cartoon-patterned sheets. Within these streaks of light, countless specks of dust danced, like a group of lost, golden fairies. The air was filled with a scent I knew all too well—a mixture of dust and a faint sweetness, the essence of a seven-year-old girl, now preserved as a specimen of time.
Everything was exactly the same as it had been at the beginning.
My heart was pounding wildly, not out of fear, but because of a dizzying clarity that comes after surviving a disaster. I looked down at my hands. They were still holding the kaleidoscope in the same position, that object I had once believed to be a key, a hope, a token of all possibilities.
At the very moment I opened my eyes, the kaleidoscope, which had traversed several distorted spacetimes and whose lenses were already riddled with cracks, collapsed completely and silently from within, without making any sound. It was as if it had been consumed by an invisible fire of time, and the rough cardboard tube, the plastic lenses inside, and the colorful glass fragments simultaneously lost all physical connections in an instant. It was no longer an object but a handful of dry powder, devoid of its soul.
The shiny, colorful dust, like a splendid death, slipped slowly through the gaps of my tightened fingers. It flowed past my knuckles, past the lines of my palm, like the last grain of sand in an hourglass. Instinctively, I tried to catch it, but no matter how tightly I closed my fingers, the tiny, glimmering particles resolutely surrendered to gravity, drifting down onto my trousers, onto the floor, soon losing their faint, final glow, becoming no different from the ordinary dust scattered across the room.
I opened my palm, and it was empty. Nothing remained.
I understood. It was all over.
There was no second chance. No corrections, no remedies, no what-ifs. The door I had forced open time and time again had now slammed shut before me, permanently locked. I had been exiled back to the starting point, the one true and unalterable present. The price I paid was all my memories—those frantic recollections of struggle and rescue had vanished like smoke with the shattering of the kaleidoscope. Only deep within my soul remained a faint echo, a final and sole gift from another "me."
"Let go."
I slowly rose from the overly small chair. My legs were somewhat numb from sitting still for so long, but I stood firmly. The wild thoughts that had occupied my mind for a long time—those ramblings about time travel, parallel universes, and quantum entanglement—had now vanished without a trace. My mind was clear, so clear that it was painful. I could no longer hide behind those complex theories and elusive hopes. I had to face reality. The reality I had been fleeing from for a whole year.
I walked out of Lily's room and gently closed the door, shutting away the shattered remnants of the past forever inside.
The living room was quiet, so quiet that I could hear the beating of my own heart. The sunlight outside the window was bright, but the room remained unlit, casting a dim and oppressive atmosphere. Sarah sat alone on the sofa in the living room, her back facing me. She wasn't watching TV or reading a book; she simply sat there in silence. Her silhouette appeared so frail, so lonely. I could see her shoulders trembling faintly, almost imperceptibly—she was crying. She was trying hard to suppress her sobs, not letting them escape. That suppression made her entire body tense, like a string on the verge of snapping.
This room, this home, felt as if it had been frozen in ice. We lived under the same roof, breathing the same air, but were separated by an invisible wall of sorrow and silence. I stood on my side, watching her cry alone on the other side. It had been a whole year.
An immense, belated sense of guilt, like a heavy block of lead, slammed into my heart. What had I done? While I locked myself in the library, immersed in those insane theories, trying to be a "hero" who fought against time and fate, I had left her alone here. Alone in this empty house, facing the pain of losing our daughter, facing a husband who was like a walking corpse. I thought I was bearing all the pain, but in reality, I was only imposing it on her in another, even crueler way.
I slowly walked toward her. Each step felt like treading on shards of glass, piercing my soul with pain. I had never seen her suffering and loneliness so clearly as I did now.
I walked over to her and sat down beside her. The sofa sank slightly under my weight, and her trembling shoulders suddenly stiffened. Her sobs stopped instantly. She quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand, as if afraid I might see her weakness.
"I... I'm fine." She didn't even turn to look at me, speaking in a voice thick with nasal congestion, feigning calmness.
I didn't say anything. I simply reached out and covered her hand, which was clenched tightly on her knee, her knuckles white from the force. Her hand was icy, like a stone forgotten on a winter night.
Sarah's body trembled violently, as if struck by an electric current. She turned her head slowly, incredulously, and looked at me. Her eyes were red and swollen, with tear stains still wet on her face. Those beautiful eyes were filled with shock and confusion. She must have been wondering what had come over the man who had been wandering around the house like a ghost for the past year, ignoring her and even reluctant to give her a glance.
I looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. I saw the sorrow in her eyes, the deep-seated weariness, and that faint glimmer of hope that, despite countless disappointments, had not been completely extinguished.
"I'm sorry." I finally spoke, my voice rasping heavily, each word seemingly forced out from the deepest part of my chest. This phrase was too light, utterly incapable of bearing even a fraction of my remorse, but it was the only thing I could say now.
Sarah stared at me blankly, as if trying to discern whether I was once again uttering some hollow words. My gaze did not waver; I simply met her eyes, pouring all my sincerity into them so that my apology, my year-late apology, was clearly written across my face.
She seemed to understand. The wariness and confusion in her eyes slowly melted away, replaced by an even greater, surging wave of sorrow. Her lips began to tremble, and tears once again poured forth uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry," I repeated, then grasped her cold hand, speaking in a tone that felt both unfamiliar to me and yet gentle and firm. "Let's… let's talk about Lily."
Sarah's pupils suddenly contracted. That name, the unspoken taboo between us, the word we had deliberately avoided for over a year—I had just spoken it out loud. She looked at me in disbelief, as if I were saying something insane.
I could understand her reaction. For this past year, I had refused to talk about anything related to Lily. I had put away her photos, locked away her toys, and used silence and indifference to erase all traces of her existence, as if not mentioning, not seeing, not thinking about it would mean the tragedy had never happened. It was a cowardly, self-deceptive escape, and today, I finally didn't want to run away anymore.
"Let's talk about the her we remember," I said to her, word by word, clearly and deliberately.
My words were like a key, unlocking the floodgate in her heart that had long been sealed by sorrow and repression. She could no longer control herself, transitioning from suppressed sobs to unrestrained wails. That cry was filled with grievance, pain, and a hint of relief from finally being released. She didn't throw herself into my arms, nor did she become hysterical. She simply sat there, letting tears stream down her cheeks, as if determined to shed all the tears she had accumulated over the past year in that single afternoon.
I didn't comfort her or utter those meaningless words like "stop crying." I knew she needed this cry. I just sat quietly beside her, tightly holding her hand, slowly conveying my warmth, my presence, my belated companionship through our connected palms. Letting her know that this time, she wasn't crying alone.
We just sat there. She was crying, and I stayed by her side, crying with her. I don't know how long it lasted, but her sobs gradually subsided into intermittent sniffles. The living room returned to silence, but this time, it was no longer that cold, lifeless quiet. Instead, it was a calm air filled with lingering sadness.
"I remember…" she finally spoke, her voice hoarse from prolonged crying, "I remember her sixth birthday when we took her to Disney. It was the first time she saw fireworks. She was so scared that she clung tightly to your neck, burying her face in your armpit. No matter how much we coaxed her, she refused to lift her head."
As she spoke, she forced a smile that looked even more painful than crying, and tears welled up in her eyes again.
My heart felt as if it had been sharply stabbed by something. This detail, I remembered. For some reason, among all my chaotic, fragmented, and even replaced memories, this tiny yet warm detail had been preserved with utmost clarity. Perhaps it was because, in the very end, the "me" at that time had used everything to protect these most precious things.
"Yes," I heard myself reply in the same hoarse voice, "She cried so much that she soaked my shirt. Later, on our way home, she kept regretting it, calling herself a coward for missing the most beautiful fireworks. Then, she made us promise to take her again next year."
When we spoke of next year, our voices choked up simultaneously. There would be no next year. Never again.
But once this topic started, it couldn't be stopped. Like two children who had just learned to speak, we clumsily and tentatively shared those memories that belonged only to the three of us. Those real, painful, yet incredibly precious memories.
"She hated eating carrots," Sarah wiped her tears but couldn't help laughing. "Every time I mixed carrot cubes into the rice, she would pick them out one by one like a little detective, piling them up on the edge of the bowl, and then look at me with that 'See, I've uncovered your trick' proud expression."
"She also loved hiding my books," I continued, a bittersweet emotion spreading in my chest. "She said those books were 'boring adult books' that would make my head square. Once, she hid my glasses in the fridge's egg tray, making me search for them all morning."
"Also, there's the first painting she ever made, which was of our family. She drew you taller than the house, saying it was because Dad is the one who holds up the sky."
"When she slept, she always kicked off the blanket, and I had to get up several times during the night to cover her again."
"The first swear word she learned was 'You dummy,' and she learned it from you. That day when you couldn't find the car keys and were pacing around the house, she followed you, mimicking your tone in her little voice, saying, 'Daddy, you dummy.'"
We spoke one sentence after another, Sarah saying something, me adding to it. We talked about her strengths and her flaws. We recalled her adorable moments as well as her mischievous antics. We no longer avoided or sugarcoated things. Piece by piece, with our memories, we gradually pieced together the real, multidimensional, lively Lily.
As we spoke, we laughed and cried at the same time. The sorrow did not disappear; it felt like a vast, boundless ocean, and we were still in its midst. But today, we were no longer drifting alone in solitude. We had found each other, holding hands, facing the waves and storms of this ocean together. We knew we might never reach the shore, but as long as we were together, we would not sink.
As we talked, we grew tired. We stopped speaking and simply leaned against each other quietly, holding hands. I could feel the coldness in her hands slowly fading, warmed by my body heat and by her own strength.
I turned my head and saw the sun slowly setting outside the window. The golden, warm sunlight pierced through the glass, slanting into this long-frozen home. Within that beam of light, countless specks of dust danced quietly, like a grand and silent farewell.
For the first time, the sunlight illuminated Sarah's tear-streaked face, making her appear fragile yet incredibly strong.
For the first time, the sunlight illuminated the delayed but finally restored calm and apology in my eyes.
The sunlight fell on our tightly clasped hands. One hand was rough, the other pale, but now they seemed to have grown together, inseparable.
I knew this was just the beginning. The healing process would be long, painful, and perhaps even filled with setbacks. But on this afternoon, when we finally broke the silence and chose to face the grief together, I felt that something had truly changed.
The Michael Sullivan who had been running away for a year was gone.
From today onward, I had to learn to be a man who could remember our daughter with my wife and then... keep living.
