Page 3 of Time After Time
So I hid it all. The memories, the photos, every trace of him tucked away in a white album decorated with seashells.
In the end, my parents lost both of their daughters—one to the grave, the other to absence.
Video calls only made the ache worse. Seeing their faces through the screen left me curled up in a ball on my bed, sobbing, because I missed them with everything I had. The video calls turned into phone calls, and eventually, even those stopped. Just the sound of their voices made my heart sting.
Mum found solace in therapy, where she was encouraged to celebrate my sister. She was told to speak of her, to keep her memory alive. Over time, it seemed to help. Mum started carrying herself with a little more peace, a little less weight on her shoulders.
For me, it felt pointless. I couldn’t bear hearing her name, let alone saying it. Every mention just drove home the fact that she was gone, that her light had faded for good. She didn’t feel real to me anymore.
I despised it.
The emptiness gnawed at me, and it made me furious. She had faded into a blur in my mind. Her voice, once so clear, wasnow just a broken record. Her eyes, her scent—everything had slipped away, leaving only the hollow space she’d left behind.
Mr. Whiskers II’s soft purring pulled me from my thoughts, his gentle nuzzles clearing the fog in my mind. He sat beside the box, watching me intently, as if waiting for me to make the next move.
His paw lifted from my thigh, pressing against the edge of the box. His body shifted, leaning in closer, tail twitching with curiosity. “What’s there?” My eyes widening as I carefully retrieved the item he pawed at. “I didn’t even remember this was here.”
I let out a soft grunt as I held the object before me. It was heavier than I remembered.
An antique mantel clock. It had once belonged to Mr. Marley, a neighbour who had always felt like a grandfather to me back in our small town. The bronze face had dulled with age, the metal softened by time. Roman numerals marked the hours, and delicate floral patterns wound their way around the edges. I traced the details with my thumbs, feeling the faint ridges of the design beneath my fingertips.
My attention remained fixed on the clock. The hands were frozen at 12:12 p.m., unmoving. Though I couldn’t be sure of the exact time, I knew it was well past noon.
Then, without warning, Mr. Whiskers II jumped onto my lap. His claws dug into my skin, his insistent meows nearly drowned out by the sharp pain shooting through my arms. I winced, my grip faltering—and in that split second, the mantel clock slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor in a violent explosion of shattered glass.
A sharp gasp left my lips, my brows furrowing at the sight of the broken clock. “Mr. Whiskers II,” I muttered, frustration bubbling up. But I knew better. The moment our eyes met, his gaze would melt it all away, soothing me.
Yet my heart raced uncontrollably, pounding in my chest.
Why?
Because everything seemed suspended in mid-air—cushions, decorations, furniture—all defying gravity.
As though time itself had halted.
Then, in a surreal twist, I swear Mr. Whiskers II winked at me.
Chapter 2
Geneviève
Nestled cosily in bed, I was jolted awake from a strange dream by what I knew was a black ball of fur sitting on my chest, nearly taking my breath away. My eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the curtains as the fog of sleep slowly lifted. Mr. Whiskers was inches from my face, his large eyes staring intently at me.
Just like every morning, he sat there, waiting. His tail swished and thumped against my pillow, each tap growing louder, until it brushed across my face, jolting me awake.
Groaning his name, I squinted against the sudden burst of sunlight and blindly reached for the pillow beside me. The weight on my chest was gone, and my hand found only empty space, confirming that Mr. Whiskers had already leapt off the bed, satisfied with his morning wake-up routine.
I rolled onto my side and let out a sharp yelp, my eyes snapping open. The sudden shift nearly tipped me off the edge of the bed, and I instinctively grabbed the sheets for balance. No matter how spacious my queen-sized bed was, I always ended up clinging to the right side, hovering far too close to falling off.
“I had the weirdest dream,” I croaked, my voice rough and scratchy from tossing and turning all night. With a defeated groan, I let my body slump to the floor, limbs too heavy to bother hauling myself back onto the bed. My bare feet sank into the soft rug as I pushed myself upright, tugging down my marshmallow-pink shorts, dotted with tiny red hearts, after they’d ridden up in my sleep. Blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, I glanced around the room, disoriented, as if the walls had shifted overnight. “I dreamt I was in my 30s.”
Mr. Whiskers leapt from the windowsill to a white dresser tucked into the corner of my bedroom. His movements were smooth, almost graceful, as his tail brushed against the lamp, the vase of tulips, and the ever-growing stack of unread books that seemed to multiply over time. Although, I didn’t keep those books there for myself.
I walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out a sundress from the endless collection I seemed to have accumulated. Mr. Whiskers padded over, nudging my left arm with his head in a gentle greeting before rubbing his body along the full length of my arm, letting out a contented purr. I couldn’t help but grin at his favourite morning ritual. His way of saying good morning.
After showering Mr. Whiskers with a few affectionate head rubs and soft kisses, I made my way to the en-suite bathroom. As usual, he followed, hopping up onto the sink to bat at the droplets of water splashing from the tap while I splashed my face.
“I had a miserable life,” I muttered, my eyes locked on my reflection in the mirror. Just thinking about the dream made my brow furrow. I rubbed the spot with two fingers, feeling it grow tense and numb. “I had a horrible day, a terrible boss, and...” I trailed off, my gaze flicking to meet a pair of fiery, vibranteyes that seemed, strangely enough, to be listening—and almost understanding—my words.
