"So now you decide to move, huh?!!"
I can feel the people around me staring.
Maybe I yelled too loudly.
I should move somewhere more private…
I get up from the bench in the plaza and walk toward an alley.
There was no one else there—except for a vagabond rummaging through the trash.
"The watch… It moved. It’s marking 12:00 but… why? What changed? The only thing I did was go to work, glare at the clock with disdain, insult it a little, and—"
"Hey, kid! If you're not going to dig through the trash, could you move?"
…Hmm?
To his eyes, I’m just another vagabond.
I lost my job, but still…
…Ah, right.
The bag German gave me.
"Well, kid? You moving or what?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
I step back into the plaza.
8:32.
I should open this bag already.
I grab it and feel a familiar weight in my hands.
Two pounds and ten shillings?
I should ask German if there’s a mistake.
…A letter?
I take the letter out, stuffing the money into my jacket’s inner pocket—the same place I keep scraps of paper and a pencil.
You never know when you’ll need to put your thoughts on paper.
The letter is old.
Its yellowed color gives it away.
The bottom part is wrinkled, and it has no address.
Doesn’t look like it was meant to be sent through conventional means…
It must be from German.
----------------------------------------
I open the letter.
And for a second—
My heart stops.
----------------------------------------
"Ethan, it’s me. Roman.
I know everything that has happened.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
I know you hate me, and I don’t blame you.
You’re probably wondering:
Why is an absent father talking to his son through a letter, after all these years, instead of in person?
I can’t answer that here.
I hope you understand.
Tell Paul that I love him.
Tell Emma too.
The three of you are my pride.
Everything I’m doing… I’m doing it for you.
If you want to ignore all of this,
close the letter and burn it.
Don’t just throw it away.
But if you want answers from this father of yours—
Go to this address:
27 Preston Rd.
With all the love in the world,
Dad."
----------------------------------------
The last part looks like he considered erasing it.
What kind of father—after so many years—seeks redemption in such a cheap way?
He must be a fool if he thinks I’ll waste another second caring about this.
I crush the letter in my hands.
But I don’t throw it away immediately.
The paper crunches between my fingers.
I stand still.
The ink doesn’t change.
The words are still there.
Roman Vayne.
Dad.
I throw it.
But I don’t see where it falls.
I sigh.
"..."
People keep walking around me.
As if nothing had changed.
As if the world hadn’t just spun a little slower for a moment.
----------------------------------------
"Tack."
"..."
Maybe I should have kept that letter after all.
Maybe I should wonder what I’ll do now.
Maybe I should ask myself how I’ll move forward.
And you can tell yourself, Ethan: Ignore it.
And you can tell yourself, Ethan: Forget it.
I start moving.
Almost instinctively, toward that street.
I take one last look around—before telling myself the truth.
----------------------------------------
A man feeds the pigeons.
The trash stinks in the dumpster.
The vagabond digs through the remains.
The restaurant is still serving meals.
The factories are still spewing their smoke.
The clouds continue on their path.
The Tower is still there.
The jester is still there.
----------------------------------------
I can feel the weight of the coins in my pocket.
But I can’t feel my hands.
I can feel the weight of my jacket.
But I can’t lift my head.
I can feel the weight of my boots.
But my feet won’t move.
A child laughs in the distance.
I can feel the heat.
The wind.
The smoke from the factories.
The voices blend into a murmur.
I hear laughter.
I hear people arguing.
I hear merchants shouting.
I hear birds chirping.
The jester sings.
But among all of that…
----------------------------------------
"Tick."
The world moves forward.
I don’t.
----------------------------------------
"Tack."
The wind blows.
The streets roar.
I am silent.
----------------------------------------
"Tick."
I should move forward too.
But then—why do I feel trapped?
----------------------------------------
"Tack."
"..."
----------------------------------------
"Tick."
Don’t listen to it, Ethan.
----------------------------------------
"Tack."
Don’t listen.
----------------------------------------
"Tick."
Don’t.
----------------------------------------
"Tack."
Only one thing, Ethan.
Feel.
----------------------------------------
"Oh, so now you move, huh, clock?"
----------------------------------------
"12:40? How generous."
----------------------------------------
"Oh… looks like it started raining."
I didn’t bring my umbrella.
Maybe if I had…
Maybe if I had, the rain wouldn’t bother me.
Maybe if I had…
None of this would matter.
----------------------------------------
"Are you alright, young man? Are you hurt?"
----------------------------------------
"Hmm? It’s just raining, that’s all…"
I stand still.
Before I can move—
I hear the bard singing.
The song of the Empress of the Third Epoch.
"For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught
To say the things he truly feels
And not the words of one who kneels
The record shows I took the blows
And did it my way"
"Yes, it was my way"
With my eyes raised I head towards Preston Street.