Page 2 of Time After Time
Murphy Kingston was an utter arsehole.
I had once seen him as the perfect example of success, someone who built his luxury construction company from the ground up with nothing but grit. The reality, however, was far less impressive. Murphy had used his father’s wealth and connections to hide his privileged past. But that wasn’t even the worst part. He pushed us into high-stakes projects that promised global recognition, only to take all the credit for our ideas and bask in the spotlight himself.
But no one had spoken up. Everyone was too afraid of losing their salary—a pay that wasn’t even what had been promised.
In the end, I was the one who was thrown out, not because I was tired of having my ideas stolen, but because I had refused Murphy’s advances.
“Fuck.”
The pain in my ankles made it impossible to reach the couch, so I slid down its back and sat on the floor, closing my eyes. Theweight of a furry body resting on my legs and the gentle touch of a tail curling around my ankle brought a sense of comfort I hadn’t known I needed, a feeling so overwhelming it nearly brought me to tears.
When my eyes focused, I found myself caught in the intense stare of bright, chartreuse green eyes. The unusual shade instantly reminded me of Mr. Whiskers, the cat I’d once had. They were strikingly similar in appearance—both had fluffy, round black bodies that seemed to carry a little extra weight, and, of course, those same captivating eyes.
Mr. Whiskers II returned my gaze, and for a fleeting second, it seemed as though a faint, knowing smile had appeared on his face. His tail swayed gracefully from side to side, the white tip marked with a tiny black spot, just like the one Mr. Whiskers had.
I met Mr. Whiskers II while wandering through my unfamiliar new city late at night, feeling lost and regretting the day I had arrived or, more accurately, the day I hadn’t truly chosen to come.
He was meowing weakly at the entrance of a dark, rain-soaked alley, his little body trembling with the cold and his eyes clouded with infection, barely able to stay open. Something in me stirred—an ache of loneliness,yes, but also a deep, raw longing for the cat I had lost so many years ago. I’d never really got over Mr. Whiskers, not since his sudden death when I was a teenager.
I still remember the day he entered my life so clearly. My parents led me into my room, and my sister covered my eyes, giggling as she teased me. When she finally let me look, there, sitting on my bed, was a tiny black kitten with a blue ribbon tied around his neck. I named him Mr. Whiskers, and he became my little shadow, always curling up beside me when I needed him most.
The memory made me smile as I ran my fingers through the soft fur of Mr. Whiskers II, now purring in my lap. Different cat, same comforting presence. He meowed, nuzzling closer like he couldn’t stand being ignored. “You must be happy I’m home earlier,” I murmured, glancing at my purse and keys on the floor. My fingers sank deeper into his fur. “What were you up to this morning?”
I knew he was a good cat. Always curious about his surroundings and quick to find the perfect spot for a nap. He was well-behaved, never demanding attention or making much noise unless he needed something.
I dropped my head against the back of the couch, desperate for a brief escape from the crappiness of the day. As my eyes scanned around the apartment, they landed on something that didn’t belong—a cardboard box sitting right behind Mr. Whiskers II.Where had that come from?
The box was unmistakably familiar, identical to the countless others I had lugged into this flat. But this one was different. It bore no label, no scribbled reminder of its contents, only a faint yellow stain bleeding across one side. I had shoved it into the dark corner of my closet and deeper into my mind. Yet now, it sat open at my feet, quiet but insistent, as if it had been waiting all along to be seen.
I dragged the back of my hand across my eyes, desperate to brush away the fog clinging to my thoughts. When my gaze landed on Mr. Whiskers II, his snowy whiskers twitched, almost curling into a sly little grin. I blinked, unsure if it was real or just another trick my weary mind was playing on me.
Then he approached the box, his gaze fixed on mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. It was as if he was waiting for me to do something, as if he knew what was supposed to happen next—and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to find out.
I hesitated, then slipped my fingers under one flap and pulled it closer.
He let out a sharp meow and flicked his tail against the box. Once. Twice. Then a third time. Each tap was slow, the soft thud against the cardboard oddly final.
He didn’t look away.
And suddenly, neither could I.
Before me lay the remnants of my happiest years, now tinged with bittersweet memories. The photographs in front of me brought back memories of better times, times when I still believed in the life I thought I would have. My parents, smiling in pictures I’d taken or my sister had, shared a love I admired but never understood. At 33, single and far removed from anything like romance, it hit me. This wasn’t the life I’d imagined for myself.
My fingers grazed a stack of photos in the box. Among the pictures of my parents was one that struck me hard, a photo of my sister.
She died when I was 21, just two months after I left our small town for New York. Her loss shattered me, broke my parents, and fractured what was left of our family.
She had been working at the local car repair shop when a group of young tourists drove by. They claimed they only wanted to scare her, but they also tried to rob her. One of them got out, swaggering toward her, demanding cash from the register. When she refused, things escalated. Voices rose. She must have stood her ground—she was always braver than me. But then one of them grabbed a tire iron from the open garage.
The investigation concluded that the blow to the back of her head came without warning. She crumpled to the ground, motionless. By the time anyone found her, they were already gone. And so was she.
I couldn’t face her funeral. The thought of standing beside my parents, swallowed by their grief, and returning to that small, stifling town was more than I could handle.
Fear clung to me.
Fear of unearthing the life I had left behind. Fear of stumbling upon reminders that my sister was no longer in every corner. Fear of seeing my parents’ silent tears and hearing the whispers of a small town that never forgets. Most of all, fear that he would be there, eyes heavy with sorrow, longing to hold me.
I had imagined it countless times. I would collapse into his arms, shaking and begging him to stay, to abandon his dreams because life without him felt unbearable.
