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Part 8 – The Fractures
The nights still belonged to them.
Arthur lay in bed as the static rose, his heart steady with expectation. Helen came first, as she always did — her words faint but certain, each fragment a balm against the silence.
“…my love… I’m here…”
He whispered back, his lips brushing the darkness. “I know.”
His father followed, voice calm, reassuring, every syllable wrapped in the steadiness Arthur had missed.
“…proud of you, son…”
Arthur breathed easier, eyes closing. The voices filled the room, familiar as breath.
But then Michael came, his cousin’s voice slipping sharp through the hiss.
“…remember when we lit the barn on fire?”
Arthur’s eyes shot open. His chest tightened. “No,” he muttered. That had never happened. They had stolen a rowboat once, yes — reckless and laughing. But no barn. No fire.
The static wavered. For a moment, he thought he heard Michael laugh, but it came in the wrong place — not after a joke, not with mischief, but cutting through his father’s next words, tangled and strange.
Arthur pressed his palms to his eyes. He was tired, too tired. Perhaps he had misheard.
Helen’s voice rose again, soft, steady.
“…our gardenias, Arthur… the wedding day…”
He clung to it, to her, to the memory she painted as clear as if it were yesterday. The unease slid away like water down glass. He whispered back, fierce in his need: “I remember. I remember.”
But when he opened his eyes, the red glow of the dial seemed brighter than before, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the static. A heartbeat.
And beneath the tide of voices, he thought he felt another, deeper sound pressing close — waiting.
(To be continued in Part 9 – Masks Off)
