and i felt the universe tilt

WARNING: This story contains hints of alcoholism and death. Take care.

IN OUR WORLD OR ANOTHER, either ages ago or centuries in the future, a place on the other side of Earth or a place not so far from your own, time paused.

In a small, quiet town, there was a boy sitting on the steps outside the library. Snow was falling, or maybe it was the frozen tears of the gods.

The boy was reading a book.

His ice-blue eyes moved across the page, his pale lips mouthing each word as he read.

I stood across the street under a tree, watching him.

I didn’t know what book he was reading. I wanted to know.

Others might have thought it was strange, a boy so young as he (he couldn’t have been older than six or so) on his own out in the cold. It didn’t strike me as odd. I had seen him before. His blonde hair used to glow in the sunshine, and his eyes reflected a warm light when he laughed.

He wasn’t laughing now. He was very intent on finishing his book.

At some point, he paused and looked up. Our eyes met. But he didn’t look scared. Now that did strike me as odd. Here I was, a tall, imposing stranger staring at him. Most children would cling tighter to their mothers or drop their gaze as they walked past.

This boy was not afraid. He rose, setting down the book and brushing off the snowflakes that had gathered on his clothes and pale hair.

I studied him as he walked towards me. He glanced both ways before crossing the street (another thing that was strange; what child learns that so early on?). He came to where I stood and looked up at me.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I answered. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers, you know.”

“You’re no stranger,” he said, smiling. (God, that smile was like the first ray of sunlight in the morning.) “I’ve seen you before.”

“And I don’t frighten you?”

“Of course not.” He pointed. “That’s a funny-looking cane. May I touch it?”

I held out my cane to him and he ran his fingers over the markings. He looked up at me again. “Why do you limp?”

I could not help but laugh. “Your mother must teach you some manners.”

His eyes darkened, just for a second, before he smiled meekly and handed back my cane. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” I held out a gloved hand to him. “Would you like to take a walk?”

The boy with blue eyes hesitated only for a moment before putting his small hand in mine.

We walked down the empty street as the snow began to fall harder. The cloud-covered sun was nearing the horizon, and I guessed that I had about an hour before I would have to take the boy home.

He asked me what I did for work.

I answered, “A doctor.”

He asked, “Have you ever seen someone die?”

I was quiet for a long time before saying, “Yes.”

We walked in silence for a few minutes. I thought we might go on forever until he suddenly pointed.

“Look, a playground.” His face broke out in a wide smile. “Can we sit on the swings?”

“Of course,” I told him.

He dropped my hand and ran for the swingset, climbing unsteadily on. He beckoned me over with a grin. “Come on.”

I approached somewhat hesitantly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve sat in one of these,” I chuckled.

He looked at me with a sudden seriousness in his round face. “Would you like me to show you how?”

I found it hard not to laugh as he guided me through settling into the swing and grasping the chains.

“And then you move your legs-” he pumped his small legs back and forth “-like this.”

I copied him, and soon we were both flying. I felt as young as he as we swung through the chilly air.

He began to slow down after a while, his nose and cheeks red from the cold. His hair was damp, but his eyes were bright as ever.

“That was fun,” he told me genuinely. He pointed at a patch of wilting flowers at the edge of the park. “May I go pick a flower?”

I waved him on, and he took off. I watched him squat down and carefully select two flowers from the ground. He came running back, flushed and panting. He held one out to me, and I gently took it.

“There you go,” he said, quite proudly. “I’m sorry they’re dying, but it is winter.”

I chuckled. “That’s quite all right. All things must die eventually. It doesn’t mean they lose all their beauty.”

He sat back down in the swing beside me. “What kind of a flower is it?”

“It’s a rose.” I held it close to my face and breathed in the sweet scent. He had given me a black one, and kept the white one for himself.

“Oh, yes,” he said, more quietly. “My mum loved roses.”

We sat in comfortable silence for some time, and I watched the sun begin to touch the horizon. I was about to suggest that I take him home when he spoke.

“I’ve seen someone die.”

I looked at him quickly. “Who?” I asked carefully.

“My mum. It was at this park, actually. She said she felt sick, then laid down and went very still. I watched the starlight drain from her eyes.”

I studied him for a long moment. “When was that?”

He paused to think, then said, “When I was six, I believe.”

“But you’re six now,” I reminded him gently.

He looked down at his small, cold hands, as if seeing them for the first time. “Yes,” he murmured after a short silence. “I suppose I am.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “It’s time to take you home. Are you ready to go?”

He stood and looked around. The park was empty, as were the streets. The snow was falling faster now.

The boy looked up at me. “Can we stop somewhere first?”

“Of course.” I held out my hand one more time. “Lead the way.”

Hand in hand, we wandered down the darkening streets. The streetlamps flickered on, glowing a dull orange reflected in the boy’s wide blue eyes. Watching him now, I felt a shift in the air around us. I wasn’t ready to see him go.

We stopped in front of a collapsing, beaten-down house. The door hung half-open, swinging creakily in the wind. The steps were cracked and crumbling, and the windows were all boarded up.

I looked down and, for the first time, saw fear in his gaze. I held his hand a little tighter.

“Will you just wait out here for me?” he asked in a small voice. His fingers were trembling. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“Of course,” I whispered. “But we must leave soon.”

He stepped carefully into the broken home, disappearing into the dark doorway. Beside the door, I saw a small, dark lump getting covered by the flakes. I quickly averted my eyes.

The boy with blonde hair reappeared in the doorway, the white rose gone from his hands. He made his way down the steps and back towards me. I opened my arms and he folded into me, burying his face in my shirt.

He began to sob.

His cries shook his whole body. I had seen grief before, but now, holding it in my arms, it became nearly unbearable.

The snow was falling faster now. The air was growing colder and darker. The boy’s sobs faded to trembling breaths. I gently took him by the shoulders and crouched down to look straight into those ice-blue eyes.

I said, “It is time to be brave.”

He sniffed, wiped his cheeks. He did not meet my gaze.

“You know what happens next?”

He nodded, another small sob escaping his trembling lips.

“We have to go now.”

I stood up straight, taking in a deep breath. I reached down and carefully picked up the boy. He wrapped his arms and legs around me, hiding his face in my shoulder.

He said, muffled, “I know where I’ve seen you before.”

I began to walk down the street, heading for a soft, glowing light.

“It was at that park,” he murmured. “When she died. You’re the one that took her away.”

*

Tomorrow, a hungover man will wake up and find a wilted white rose at his bedside. He’ll look around, confused, and call out for his son.

*

“You looked at me,” said the boy sleepily. “You were crying. Or maybe I was. I don’t remember.”

*

The man will stumble into the kitchen, muttering about the disrespect of teenagers these days. He’ll find the front door open and pause, confused.

*

“It’s okay that you don’t remember,” I told the boy. “It was a whole decade ago.”

*

The man will rub his unshaven chin as he steps onto the cracked and crumbling front porch. He’ll look around and see the newly fallen snow.

*

“Yeah,” said the fair-haired boy, very quietly. He yawned. “I’m very tired. Is it time to go to bed?”

*

He will notice a dark lump to the side and will approach it cautiously, expecting a dead animal or a pile of rocks.

*

“Almost,” I whispered, carefully handing him over to the tall blonde woman who stood waiting.

*

He will brush away the snow and let out a soft, strangled cry as he realizes what it is.

*

“Look who’s here,” I told the boy. He looked up and those beautiful eyes lit up one more time.

*

Tomorrow morning, a man will find a dead white rose at his bedside and the body of his 16-year-old son curled up in a snowdrift outside. He will cradle the boy’s blonde head in his arms, begging him to open his eyes, cursing Death for taking both his wife and his son from him.

*

“Mum,” breathed the little blue-eyed boy, wrapping his arms tightly around his mother’s neck.

*

Tomorrow morning, a man will tell his son “I love you I love you I love you” over and over again, wishing that he had said it before this.

*

A month from now, I will be standing at a small gravestone with a crumbling rose in front of it. I will pick up my scythe and recall how a little boy once thought it was my cane. I will see him in every puddle, every raindrop, every snowflake. There are not many ghosts that haunt me, but those who do are the ones that made the universe tilt, just a little.