I’m standing outside my house. The sun is glinting just over the roof and I shield my eyes from its glare. The shades are open on the downstair’s windows and I can see little shadows dancing inside.

A little figure is suddenly at the window. It’s Eleanor. Her eyes go wide and I can see her shout, “Daddy!” before racing to the front door. Flinging the door open, she races down the uneven concrete steps, into the yard, and into my arms. I pick her up and she squeezes me tight, burrowing her head in the crook of my neck.

“You’re here,” I whisper, feeling tears welling up.

It’s her. It’s Eleanor, but as I hold her, she feels different. She’s bigger. Heavier. Taller. When she pulls back and smiles, I can see that she has lost some of her baby teeth and new, bigger, crooked teeth are in their place. She’s going to need braces.

How long was I in the void? How long was I adrift for?

“You’re home early.”

It’s a man’s voice and I look up to see a man—a stranger—standing at the top of the steps of my house. He has a thick head of dark brown hair and wears a tight-fitting t-shirt over a pair of dark gray, loose-fitting jeans. A black leather belt with a gold buckle cinches his waist. He has a large, muscular chest, broad shoulders and a slim waist. He looks like the kind of guy that I would work hard to impress so I could become friends with him.

Who was he? And what was he doing in my house with Eleanor?

I try to set Eleanor down, but she maintains a vice grip around my neck, wrapping her legs around my midsection, chanting, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!”

The man comes down the stairs and sandwiches Eleanor between us as he embraces me, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. He looks at the driveway and towards the street.

“Where’s the car?” he asks.

My cheek still feels warm from his kiss. A slight tingle growing and radiating down my spine. It’s then that realization dawns that I am not back in my version of the multiverse. I stutter out a response about my car breaking down and calling a ride.

“Why didn’t you call? We could have picked you up,” he says.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” I reply. “Besides, it's a nice day.”

He touches the fleece sweatshirt. “What are you wearing?”

“Something borrowed,” I say.

The man touches my face. His hand feels cool. “Your skin is all red.”

“Just waiting on the ride,” I say. “It took a while.”

“I’ve got something that will help,” he says. “Come on inside.”

Eleanor climbs down from my arms and runs inside, stopping just inside the door to shout, “Come on!”

We follow inside.

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The house is different. The furniture in the front room has been rearranged. There’s a tall bookcase against one wall that’s new. On the shelves there’s books, some small statues, a large abalone shell with some partially burnt bundles of herbs and wood, and framed photos: a picture of Eleanor; one of myself, Veronica, and Eleanor as a tiny, swaddled infant; and one of myself, the man, and Eleanor all smiling, arms wrapped around each other.

The house smells different too. Before it smelled like an old, worn-in house; a collection of paint and carpet and dirty clothes and dirty bathrooms—lingering smells from potty training and the process of death and dying. Now there’s an earthiness to it. The smell of cedar, incense, coffee and whatever else. It wasn’t overpowering, but subtle and pleasant and peaceful.

The man disappears up the stairs for a brief moment, before coming down with a clear jar in his hands. “Sit,” he says, motioning to the stairs. Sitting down, I close my eyes as he bends down, gently spreading the ointment from the jar on my face. It feels cool and I feel a soft sigh escaping my lips. “It’s good, right?” the man asks. I nod.

He steps away, setting the jar on the nearby kitchen table. He returns, picking up a dark brown ukulele off the shelf and sits on the steps next to me. “We were just having a bit of a music lesson,” he says as Eleanor sits next to him, cuddling into his side. “Do you want to join?”

I nod, moving to sit down on the floor, facing them.

He strums and picks at the ukulele, playing around, before striking a few chords together and stopping altogether, before beginning to play again. They’re nursery rhymes. He starts a verse, but quiets as Eleanor joins in. Her voice is timid, but she keeps smiling back and forth between him and myself; seeking our praise and adulation. The song is familiar, so when she falters, I gently pick up the verse, leading her back into it. The man smiles at me and I smile back.

As the verses run out, the music shifts as he continues to play. Eleanor is feeling it, her gentle heart chasing the music; made from it. She gets up from the stairs and does a little dance. What you cannot comprehend is the love he is expressing in his music towards her and she to him in her dance. And seeing her alive and living in this way gives me great joy and I can feel my eyes itch as tears spring into them. She had always seen the world as a beautiful world to live in. I can see in her smile how much she still loves me even though she has never known me—at least this version of me.

At least there are versions of her where she is happy and I am still present in her life; versions in the multiverse where I didn’t choose to send her away. Or maybe I did, but she didn’t go. Why wouldn’t she have gone? Was it because my will wasn’t strong enough? Or because her will was stronger than mine and it was her love for me that kept her here?

What does this mean for the other versions of her out there? When did the splintering begin and where did it end? Are there other versions like this one where we are still together? Both of us growing together, trying to make our way through this thing called life.

“Where are you at?” My eyes turn away from Eleanor to the man. He’s still playing, but he’s watching me.

“Far away,” I reply. “Across the universe.”

He smiles, the music changing to an older, familiar song. He starts to hum along with the music.

“She really loves you,” I say.

“She’s a good kid.”

Eleanor is still dancing and begins to sing along with the music, “Nothing’s going to change my world. Nothing’s going to change my world.”

He is still watching me, studying me. “You’re not really him,” he finally says. Not a question, but a statement. I shake my head. “Then who are you?” he asks.

“A traveler,” I say. “A sojourner through this existence and others.”

“I’m Patrick,” he says.

I stand and go over to Eleanor. “Daddy’s got to go.”

The music stops and she stops dancing.

“No, Daddy. Stay!” She sticks out her lip dramatically, but there is truth in her plea.

“I need to go back,” I tell her. “I’ll be home later.”

“Okay,” she says, still pouting. But then she brightens and hugs me and jumps up and down saying, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I say and I open the door and step outside.

She is still watching from the window as I walk up the street and back into the void.