He traced his finger along the white paneling of the hallway. He noticed a doorframe, a threshold, a few paces away. The warmth of the lanterns that were protruding from the wall made his eyes slow to pass over the details. The door up ahead was cracked open, a black line against the white walls. He slowed his steps gradually until he came to a stop. A cloud of faint coffee filled his lungs as he took a deep breath, his eyes closed. He couldn't open them. Not yet.
Something slipped through the doorway. It was smooth like a ribbon, and it lifted him up with the various notes. The music, it was fluent. It was another language that he had learned in his father's presence. The slow rhythm of the piano laced with the gentle violin.
Fragments of his past floated through his head. Every vision, dream, just not material enough for him to focus on before the next would appear. His father, kneeling at his sister's grave. Jessica was printed across the stone. Ceramic butterflies and crosses decorated the grave. A cartoon-style frog sculpture was standing beside the stone, looking into the visitor's eyes with its easygoing smile.
His father was weeping. And that was the longest he gripped that memory. The next dream climbed into his thoughts like a strong disease. It left no room for any other images or phrases to slither into the fluid jazz music. It consumed his mind until his eyes opened slowly, defeated, and he released a long held breath.
The boy eased towards the door, his feet seeming to float across the carpet numbingly. He placed one hand gingerly on the dark wood and inched the door open, his movements as smooth and numb as his steps.
As the door swung, the music that spilled into the hall grew. The boy found himself once again meditating in a stupor. He closed his eyes to see his sister's text on his cell phone screen. He read the words "I love you". This memory lifted his lids and he lowered his eyes to the floor. The room in front of his swirled as tears filled his eyes. A warm sensation trickled down his cheek. He then withdrew a shaky breath and forced the tears to subside.
There was a woman sitting behind a mahogany desk ten feet across the dim, stale room. The paneling was brown and the lamps were slightly glowing. The most dominant light source came from a second, smaller desk that was against the furthest wall, which the woman sat in between.
She was poised in a dark leather chair, swiveled just so the boy could see the straight rigid back and one of the woman's legs. She was turned to the desk behind her.
There was scarce movement, but the static of the room told the boy that she was spilling her emotions onto the desk. He heard stifled whimpers, so stifled that he had to close his eyes to ensure that what he was hearing were cries.
The soft gentle rock of the piano radiated from a small radio in the corner of the dank room. Jazz was the only genre which allowed sorrow, his dad had taught him. It was the only genre that was pure emotion.
The music reminded him of the black and white detective shows that the boy would watch with his father, all too often. His dad's interests where fed to the boy frequently, but now he didn't mind so much. He would give anything to have those days back; back when everything was right and together. Back before his world was tattered.
With a hushed creak, the chair swiveled around. The woman had chestnut hair and mascara-stained tear paths down her face. In the dulled light, a murky shadow hung from the woman's eyes.
She clasped here hands to her mouth and convulsed with a sob. When she settled, she lowered her hands.
"Kyle, how did you get in here?" she asked softly, then lowered her head.
The boy didn't respond but closed the distance between them. The woman lifted herself from the chair and took gradual steps towards him. Lingering tears spilled from her eyes and she fell apart in the boy's arms. She shrank as they embraced, unable to maintain her facade. She was the child.
"Mom," the boy murmured. "It'll be okay."
Then tears of his own stained the floor, a couple of feet from where a framed picture of his father lay; the frame was face up, and glass surrounded his genuine, kind smile.
