Chapter 1: Dear Mother

I looked down at my notebook and winced.

Definitely not my prettiest paragraph, but it would have to do. I pressed the tip of my pen against the page and resumed my work, the gentle, melodic notes of Miranda's lyre lulling me back into the flow.

I wrote about my mother, Merlyn, and my early childhood. Half because I wanted to vent my feelings on the anniversary of her passing and half because, if I ever died, I wanted at least something of my experiences to remain.

If I could help a single person, even beyond the grave, I'd be at ease knowing my suffering inspired someone.

A smile crept across my face. It tugged at all the most somber emotions, remembering my mother, but it helped to have a place where I could dump everything without fear of judgment. No one, not even Miranda, could ever truly understand all of my thoughts and feelings. Not that they had to, of course.

Everyone was their own individual.

My mother hated people who made needless inquiries into the nature of regret. While the goal of life was to live with as few regrets as possible, Merlyn believed everyone was going to regret something at some point. If that was the case, then not having regrets became impossible. Instead, life was about coming to terms with all of your mistakes, growing, and moving on.

My pen glided along the notebook page. I let my mind flow uninhibited, recalling memories from my childhood. I tried to remember as much as I could about my mother's life, too. Who she was, why she came here, who she wanted to be.

Meryln grew up in a rough area of Croydon in London. She came to America to escape her family's brutally crushing expectations—something she never fully accomplished, but that was life, wasn't it? Her mother and father both wanted her to become a doctor, an engineer, or an entrepreneur. Something that made money, because money was the only true path to happiness.

Their words, not mine.

My mother, on the other hand, only ever wanted to play the piano.

And she did. Oh, how beautifully her fingers danced across the keys with rehearsed practice. She was an expert. All she needed was to hear a song once and she'd have nearly mastered it.

Music was an escape for her. It took her out of her dreary, miserable life and gave her the freedom nothing else could. Learning about musicians inspired her just as much as it did me: Merlyn was fond of all pianists, though some she favored far more than others.

She came to America and gave music school her best attempt, trying to escape the brutally crushing pressure of her family. Unfortunately, her situation only got worse when she met my father.

My father. What a rough, unrefined man he'd been. It was hard to think a woman like Merlyn would ever fall for someone like my father, but it happened.

Oftentimes I wished it hadn't.

She deserved someone much, much better.

A kind, sweet woman meets a mysterious, rugged man—it's a story everyone knows. Merlyn's is a little different, though. Where most ended in heartbreak, hers ended in marriage with a gangster who only ever wanted money and war.

She fell in love with a man whose greed knew no bounds, a man who wanted to teach his son how to lead a gang of violent thugs that extorted innocent people for money.

With a pained sigh, I stuffed the pen into the breast pocket of my shirt and closed my journal. I looked around the dimly lit café and saw Miranda just as she tucked her lyre into its case. After snapping its latches shut, she reached for the closing sign beneath the register.

"How's the writing?" She smiled, warmth radiating off her freckled face. The lamplight elevated her beauty; her bronze skin reflected the warm golden rays, and it caught the strands of loose, fiery gold-red hair. It made each strand of curly hair glow like embers.

Miranda was a tall, lithe woman with a presence that bordered on imposing despite her gentle personality and soft voice. She was taller than me by nearly a foot. I'd always been short, and she teased me for it every chance she got.

"Great," I lied. "I love everything I write."

"Just as I love all the music I make." She rolled her eyes. "Any more sarcasm and you might overdose."

"Boy, wouldn't that be something?" I laughed, but Miranda hastily stammered an apology at the same time. Her eyes widened in shock, and she put a hand on her hip.

"You're a dark person, Isaac," she scolded in an all-too-familiar chastising voice.

"Laughter is the greatest medicine of all." Again, she rolled her eyes, and again, I laughed. "If you needed a reason to like it more, you can't be charged for it."

She grumbled an insult about failed comedy. I stood, threw my suit jacket on, and plucked my notebook off the table. Taking a deep breath, I reminisced a moment about how I'd seen my surroundings change over the years.

The café, built by Miranda's father and managed by her uncles, was called Eve's Lyre. Regulars simply called it Eve's. It was loved by all who came, especially for its main attraction—Miranda. She played her father's lyre while sitting behind the bar, handling the customer interactions, and rarely brewing coffee with the baristas.

She sauntered out from behind the bar, untying her hair and apron.

"So, no date?" I stretched, yawning. She hated when I asked that.

"That ship sank three years ago." She scoffed, but gently pushed me toward the door. Her touch made me shiver. "I'm sorry for the joke. I know it's hurtful."

I smiled. She frowned, as though I was only putting on an act to hide my pain and not at all being serious. "You know," I turned around and took her hands in mine, "that I am not fragile. I am not glass. I have struggled no more than the last person to walk through those doors."

"I know." She sniffled. From where I stood, I could smell her perfume. It was the same one she always wore, of lavender and magnolia. "I just…I feel bad. I know we've spoken about this a thousand times, but are you sure you're all right talking to me? I—I broke your heart, and…"

I sighed, squeezing her hands. She let her voice trail off into silence.

"You're pitying me." I chuckled. Tears glistened in Miranda's blue eyes. "For both our sakes, stop feeling bad about the past. If I hated you or didn't want to be friends with you, I'd have told you long ago."

Slowly, she nodded. I knew she felt bad about our breakup—she always would, and I knew reminding her it was my choice to remain friends in spite of it all did little to change her mind—but I hoped she eventually came to her senses.

She said she moved on, but it didn't ever seem like it. She brought up our falling out often, at least once every few days. Lately it had become more and more commonplace.

I knew, deep down, that Miranda would always have a special place in my heart. She was my first real relationship, a high school sweetheart that survived a good chunk of our college years. That alone was impressive.

I scratched the back of my head. A heavy silence crept between us. When i realized our hands were still intertwined, I hastily let go, murmuring an apology.

"I'll need to get going," I stuttered.

Miranda nodded, cheeks flushing a deep red, and I went to step past her. She caught my arm on my way out.

"Be safe," she muttered, eyes downcast. "The subways can be dangerous at night."

"Of course." I smiled and waved goodbye at the door. "See you tomorrow."

The jingling of the café door's bells was immediately drowned out by a howling wind.

To my surprise—and horror, at least in part—there were no pedestrians on the sidewalk. I gawked, looking up and down the streets. No cars, no people. Just the wind and the countless lights of skyscrapers.

It was as if the whole world had slowed to a standstill.

I let it seep in, transfixed by the very thought. In the middle of New York City, at night, during Labor Day Weekend, nobody wandered the city. No one was driving, either.

New York most certainly had a night market; there were people working jobs all over, from sanitation to maintenance crews to cashiers. It was a holiday, to be sure, but holidays in a city this size were usually...cacophonous, to say the least.

Normally, most people were out celebrating, getting drunk or visiting with friends and family. However, tonight it was just me and the frigid wind howling down the streets.

With a bemused sigh, I set off up the sidewalk in the direction of the subway. Silence enveloped me, threatening to drown the whole world. I turned around one last time to give a cursory glance at Eve's.

Perhaps I should've offered to walk Miranda home. I laughed at the idea: she was a stubborn woman. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that she would've refused the offer and said something about "troublesome men."

That would be very like her, wouldn't it?

I looked up just in time to see a bright blue butterfly fluttering two sets of magnificent wings. Slowly, it began to descend, and I blinked, doubting if I was seeing properly. Was it truly a butterfly, or had there been something in the food I ate?

It flew closer, closer, closer, until it danced just a finger's breadth away from my nose. In my awe, I stopped breathing. it landed atop my nose, perching there. Nothing in my life had ever been so magical.

It was like something out of a fairy tale.

That was, until all the strength vanished from my body. One moment I stood there, aghast at the mystical experience, and the next I was face-first on the pavement, vision fading. I fumbled helplessly, shouting for help that never came.

The whole world was frozen in time.

My vision faded to darkness, and the last thing I saw was an enormous storm of blue sparks crackling in the sky.