The calendar on our dining room wall still has a red circle around a date neither of us mentions anymore. NC 790, Month 3 — the day our parents were buried. The red ink is fading slightly, but the memory isn't.Now, weeks later in NC 790, Month 4, the squares below that date are almost empty. Blank mornings, long afternoons, too much silence. Time feels heavier when you don't know what to do with it.
School hasn't started yet. Technically, we should be preparing for new uniforms, new teachers, new classmates. Instead, we're here, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, pretending to care about school brochures.
Erika lies on her stomach, tablet in front of her, legs kicking lazily in the air. I sit cross-legged near the coffee table with stacks of printed brochures—some I picked up, most she forced me to look at. She swipes through another colorful PDF and holds it up like it's a treasure map.
"What about Arian High?" she asks. "They have a really good art club! And their festival parades look fun. It says right here they win regional competitions."
I lean in, pretending to read carefully. The brochure is bright, filled with smiling students holding banners, balloons, trophies. Their uniforms look modern, neat. The description boasts about creative labs, clubs, and "well-rounded academic support." It looks like a place for kids who didn't just lose everything.
"It seems good," I say finally.
Erika lifts her chin proudly. "I can tell. They have passion."
"They have paint," I mutter. "Passion might be optional."
She makes a face. "That's why you'll be a boring student."
"Better boring than covered in glitter."
She throws a cushion at me. I dodge it, but only barely.
We look through more schools. There are dozens: technical academies, science-focused institutions, artistic schools, corporate-prep programs. Each with perks. Each promising a future. None promising answers.
Erika reads one aloud. "Look, this one has a cafeteria that serves ramen bowls twice a week."
"That's your standard now?"
"Nutrition is important, Sirius. A starving student is a failing student."
"You're not even the one applying."
"I stand with moral support."
I sigh. She grins. For a moment, we're just siblings planning a future that still exists.
When lunchtime arrives, Erika heads to the kitchen first. She insists on cooking again. The last time I tried, she said my food tasted "like sadness disguised as seasoning." I didn't argue because she wasn't wrong.
Today she cooks fried fish—crisp, lightly salted—and a pot of vegetable soup. The smell is warm, familiar. Something we grew up with. When she serves it, she holds her head high like she's a chef unveiling a masterpiece.
"I present: edible food," she declares.
I take a bite. The fish crunches softly. The soup is simple but comforting. I nod. "Better than last time."
"I added actual salt this time," she says proudly.
"Good strategy."
We eat slowly. There's a comfortable silence between us, filled with clicking utensils and the hum of the small kitchen fan. For a moment, it feels like Mom might walk in with a towel on her shoulder, complaining about the market prices. Or Dad might peek in to steal the last piece of fish.
But they don't. Memory is louder than reality sometimes.
After lunch, Erika packs a small bag. "I'll go to the market. Just nearby. We need milk and maybe snacks." She taps her chin. "Ice cream too. It helps with tragedy."
I raise an eyebrow. "Tragedy snacks?"
"Science has proven sugar heals trauma," she says confidently.
"That isn't science."
"It is now."
She heads toward the door. Instinctively, I say, "I'll go with you."
She stops, turns around, and pats my shoulder like an adult calming a nervous child. "Relax. I'm just going down the street. I'm not getting kidnapped at the vegetable aisle."
I know she's right. Still, anxiety lingers like static electricity in my chest. "Just… be careful, okay?"
She gives a soft smile. "I will, Sirius."
The door closes. The house falls into stillness, as if exhaling.
I sit there for a moment, listening. No laughter. No footsteps. No arguments over spices. Just quiet.
Then I stand. My feet move before my thoughts catch up.
Because that silence isn't empty.It's an opportunity.
I walk to the living room cabinet. Behind old school documents and utility bills sits a black laptop. My father's. I pull it out, set it on the table, and sit in front of it.
I don't try to justify digging into it this time.Not aloud.Not even to myself.
Dad might have left something. A clue. A reason. Anything.
I open the laptop. It boots slowly, humming faintly. The wallpaper appears—a snowy mountain landscape, pale and quiet under a heavy sky. Dad never changed it. He liked simple things. He said technology didn't need decoration; it needed purpose.
The screen fills with desktop files, folders named after research topics, spreadsheets, lecture slides. Normal things from a normal career. Too normal.
I open a browser first. If Erika comes back, I want school tabs ready and visible. I search for admissions, fill out half-faked interest forms, click "download brochure." Tabs multiply like camouflage.
Then, behind them, hidden by the pile, I open the file explorer.
My pulse grows steady. Focused.
I'm not just waiting anymore.
I'm searching.
And with every click, every folder, every scrolling document, the quiet in the house feels less like peace—
And more like a door waiting to open.
To something buried.