The aroma of cinnamon danced around the room. I felt my head on my pillow.

“Darien? Do you want a candle in here?”

My eyes focused on my dad, holding a lit scented candle in the black doorway.

“Sure,” I muttered, and sat up in bed.

My face felt yucky from the spontaneous nap. With the window beside my bed, I anticipated the booming noise of a thunderstorm outside, but it was silent.

“It’s not raining anymore,” I noted.

“It wasn’t that bad, today,” Dad said. “It will be all week, though. Hopefully not during the gathering.”

“Yeah… I’m gonna make some tea. Did you want any?””

He nodded.

The kitchen was way too bright for just waking up. Dad fired up the burner for the kettle. The light didn’t do him any favors. His graying hair was more prominent and the dark circles on his much lighter skin were the only things I could pay attention to. I felt bad for thinking so. I also felt bad for wondering why he was white, when I so clearly wasn’t. Everyday, I thought about it.

I plugged my ears once the kettle screamed.

“How much lemon did you want?" he asked.

“I’ll get it,” I said.

He didn’t listen. I felt useless when he started prepping the mugs for me, so I took over. I tried to, at least. The cabinet with the tea bags was too high up for me to reach. He got them for me, then handed me the knife to a lemon with.

"Calm down!" he laughed. "No need to stab anyone."

I set the knife down. “Sorry, I'm still tired.”

"I can tell."

"I'm gonna lay down some more."

The curtains in my room were still open. It made my tiny room feel boundless. Everything fit, tucked perfectly into corners and between spaces under my bed. But that was enough for the day. My pillow felt stale. Laying on it wasn’t as relaxing as it was a couple hours ago when I got back home. I guess I wasn’t meant to fall back asleep yet.

Dad knocked on the door frame.

“Darien,” he said. “I’m going out to see the pond.”

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"What pond?”

“Behind the apartment building.”

“What about your tea?”

“It’ll be a pleasant surprise once I get back inside.”

I remembered the nightmare it was to walk back home earlier, but I couldn’t let that stop me from going outside at night. I had to get used to it at some point.

“Can—”

“Do you want to come?”

The invitation surprised me. “Sure.”

"Okay. Put some sneakers on.”

* ・○・●・○・●

He slowly closed the door. I only then noticed how frail his voice was. Still, he sounded like a grown working man, but without the motivation or the will to do anything besides talking to me.

In a few minutes, we journeyed down the stairs, passing all the other apartments with people lucky enough to live on the first floor. My dad brought his phone and a black thermos with him. He put up his hood and held the front door open. The lingering clouds blocked the moon and the stars, but I wouldn’t be able to see them anyway without glasses. Muggy air fell around me.

Through a wall of fir trees, a dirt path led us through the thick of the woods. It continued up a small hill and branched into many directions. Dad kept me from going any further, and we stopped in the middle of the forest. The foliage created a ceiling, enveloping us in gold and emerald. And nearby was a huge, shimmering, crystal pond, with an old, fallen tree as a stairway down. I never saw something so clear.

I couldn't stop myself from spinning to see everything happening around me. I pointed to one of the widest and tallest trees. “Look at that!”

“I know,” my dad said, snapping about twenty pictures on his phone.

He recoiled as water droplets fell on his hand.

“Do we have to go to church on Saturday?” I asked.

“Why? You don’t want to go?” Dad wiped his hand on his jacket.

“I just wanted to stay here.”

“Mr. Dantes wanted to see us. And the food might be really good. You’ve been there before. That’s the church we used to go to. You don’t remember?”

“Kinda.”

He continued to take more pictures, and never answered my original question.

I rolled up my sweatshirt sleeves to feel the smooth air. I took a deep breath and let it all in. My dad touched my shoulder. I put on my glasses. He pointed to a rotting wooden sign with words written in white paint marker: Private Property!

“Are we allowed to be here?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I meant to ask you.”

“I thought you came here before.”

"Only once, but you know how people are. We should head back. It's almost twelve.”

“Does it count if it looks like a toddler made it?"

“Be nice to yourself for once.”

“My handwriting isn’t that bad.”

The air started to cool a bit. My dad started back down the trail. I noticed the shimmering of the pond again. It continued for so long, even shrinking into a small stream that continued through a mess of thorn bushes. How did I never notice it before? I decided not to take a picture and move on. A chip of the rotting sign stuck in my sleeve. It almost cut through my skin.