Evening came with the smell of burning leaves wafting through the open window. Somewhere nearby, someone was clearing out their yard, and the smoke curled into our street like a quiet signal — things were being let go, things were being made ready.
I sat on the floor of my room, textbooks open but forgotten, trying to anchor myself to a timeline that no longer obeyed memory. Each day here was a thread unraveling differently, and I was no longer sure which way the fabric was meant to fall.
A knock on the door.
"Come in," I said.
My father stepped in, holding two cups of tea.
That... never used to happen.
He didn't knock. He didn't bring tea. He didn't usually linger at all. But today, he sat cross-legged on the rug beside me and handed me a cup like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Your mother's out for her walk," he said. "Figured we could catch up."
I nodded slowly, unsure of what this was.
We sat in silence at first. Sipped. The smell of ginger filled the room.
Then he spoke.
"You know, when I was your age, I wanted to be a writer."
I blinked. "You never told me that."
He smiled, a little bitter. "Because I didn't become one."
He stared at his cup for a long moment. "I chose the safer road. A job with stability. A routine. Then came your mom, you, your brother. And the dream became something I carried in my shirt pocket like an old receipt — always there, but never used."
I didn't know how to respond. This wasn't the father I remembered. He was always practical, hard-edged, strict with rules. But now... he looked soft around the eyes. Tired in a very human way.
"Why are you telling me this now?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Because I see something in you these days. Like you're walking on glass. Like you're trying too hard not to break something that already cracked."
I froze.
He couldn't know. He shouldn't know.
But somehow, he did.
"Whatever you're carrying," he said, "let it go before it crushes you."
And just like that, the room felt too small, the air too heavy.
That night, I stepped out.
The smoke from the burning leaves had drifted higher, painting the stars with faint shadows. I walked alone toward the park, the same one where my brother would fall off the swing two days from now — if time didn't rewrite that too.
And as I walked, I wondered...
Was I meant to change things? Or just remember them better?
What if this second life wasn't a puzzle to solve but a story to forgive?
One where the scent of burning leaves didn't mean endings…
But quiet beginnings.