The rain came faster than expected.
It wasn't the kind that gently trickled down rooftops. It was sudden — sharp, impatient — like the sky had lost its temper. I stood at the gate of our old home, the sound of droplets hitting the tin roof like a ticking clock.
Inside, my father was pacing. I could see him through the living room window, backlit by the yellow light of the ceiling fan. Same old brown sweater, sleeves rolled up, head bent low.
He hadn't changed much, except in my memory. There, he had become colder. Smaller. A man who didn't know how to mourn, who lost his temper at the silence, who buried his grief under layers of work and detachment.
But standing there now, watching him pour over the newspaper, trying to make sense of the world, I remembered something else.
He was scared. He had always been scared. And that day — March 17th — he was about to break, too.
I walked inside.
The door creaked, just like it used to. No one replaced it even after it began making that sound — not because we didn't care, but because we had stopped noticing.
"Where were you?" my dad asked, not looking up.
"Out. With… my brother."
He paused. "You two still talk?"
"Sometimes," I said, careful. "More now than before."
He gave a vague grunt. I wasn't sure if it meant approval or disappointment. He was never good at showing what he meant.
But I was watching now — really watching — and I saw his hands tremble as he flipped the page of the newspaper. He wasn't angry. He was nervous.
"Dad," I said softly, stepping closer, "do you need help with anything?"
He looked up, startled. "What?"
"I just thought… maybe you needed help with something. Or maybe just… company."
The words felt awkward in my mouth. They didn't belong in our usual scripts. But they were real. And something about them seemed to land.
He set the paper down. "You alright?" he asked.
No. I wanted to say. I've traveled back in time, and I know tomorrow you'll get a call that'll change everything — about your job, your place in the world, the way you see yourself. And I can't stop it.
But instead, I just nodded. "Yeah. I think I just don't want to waste another day."
That evening, the house felt quieter.
My mother hummed while folding clothes. My brother played guitar in his room, a tune he never finished writing. And my father sat with me in the living room, sipping tea, not talking — but there.
It was the calm before the storm.
I didn't know if I could stop what was coming. I didn't know if any of this mattered.
But I knew this: I was going to be present for every last moment.
Not as a bystander. Not as a regretful man.
As a son. As a brother. As someone who remembered.
And tomorrow, when the world shifted again — I'd be ready.
Even if it meant letting go, all over again.