Heya Guys!
I Just want to let you know that I will reference some Back Ground Music you can play for some parts of the story that I think fit the overall theme for what's going on. You can also play what ever song you think works too. I find music can really bring the story to life sometimes.
Anyway that's it for me. Enjoy the story!
- - - - - - -
I am already burrowed under my quilt when Mom slides in beside me, bringing the smell of laundry soap and the softness of her warm sweater as she lays next to me.
Our night light makes the ceiling look like a shallow sea of gold and blue. Like waves of stars moving in slow breaths across the sky. I fit my head under Mom's chin and try very hard to calm down. Calm, Madison. You are a serene little marshmallow. You are not going to explode with questions about the story. Not yet.
Mom kisses my hair. "Once upon a time," she whispers, "there was a boy who lived on a necklace of little islands. The sand there squeaked when you ran across it. Palm trees combed the sky as they waved with the island wind, and every night the stars made a map in the sky that promised somewhere else, something more."
I wiggle my toes against the cool spot at the end of the bed. I already love him. An island boy! I bet he has a spear. No, wait, a harpoon! Harpoons are so cool. I bite the inside of my cheek so I don't blurt out anything during the story.
"He had two very best friends," Mom goes on, her voice soft and kind. "One was brave in the way of storms, he wanted to see the edge of something new. The other was gentle in the way of morning, her heart was so bright that even the shadows felt shy around her. The three of them built a raft and called it 'Excalibur.'"
My fingers curl into the quilt. "Excalibur, that sounds like a weapon" I whisper, and then clap a hand over my mouth because I'm supposed to be listening to Mom.
"But one night," Mom says, and her breath tickles my ear, "a door the boy had never noticed before opened in the sky. Wind like a thousand wings. Rain like angry marbles. And from those winds came little creatures, slick as spilled ink and hungry as an empty cookie jar. They were made from the people's darkness in their heart's."
I sit up a teeny bit. "The…" I stop. Don't say it, Maddie. Don't say, Did they have claws? Did they have teeth? Did they carry tiny knives? Focus, and just listen.
"The boy ran to find his friends," Mom says, settling a hand on my hair to lay me back down. "But the storm swallowed the islands, and the stars looked away. He was about to be taken, too, when a key fell into his hands."
"A key?" I can't help it. "A real key or like a….like a sword key or a key sword? Because if it was a key sword, that's actually brilliant? Imagine the leverage you could get with it, Mom! Like you could use it for turning a lock and also bonking bad guys, It's brilliant!."
Mom's shoulders shake as she tries not to laugh. "A key sword or a key blade, my sugar cookie. A shining one, with a charm at the end that jingled when he moved. It wasn't heavy. It felt like it had been waiting for him since the first time he'd wished for more."
I kick my feet under the covers with quiet ferocity. A Weapon!! Calm, calm down. I think very loudly inside my head: Do not demand specifications of this weapon. Not right now. Ask later if the blade had serrations or just a straight edge. Breathe.
"The boy woke up," Mom continues, "In a town where lost people find each other. There he met a royal magician who wore his temper like a feathered cap, and a captain of the guard with the softest of hearts and the strongest of loyalty. They said, 'We're looking for a hero who wields a key, and you look exactly like hope that hasn't yet learned to be afraid.' So they traveled together in a ship made of wishes, candy wrappers, and an engine that ran off of laughter."
I try to be quiet, but a squeak pops out from my mouth. I try to pretend it didn't.
"They traveled from world to world," Mom whispers, "And in each world the boy found a keyhole, the secret kind that leads to a world's heart. He locked them so the dark-things couldn't sneak in and gnaw on what keeps a world safe. He met queens who could stitch snow into crowns. He met monsters who only needed a friend. He even met a very small king who used to wear a coat sewn out of starlight and responsibility."
I picture a teeny crown and my cheeks squeeze up cutely. Then I picture the key sword and my brain immediately designs possible upgrades for it. A parrying hook. A flip-out lockpick. A cookie dispenser. Stop it, Madison. Stop weapon-gushing. Listen.
"But a horn crowned witch was playing the longer game," Mom says, voice lowering. "She was gathering seven maidens whose hearts were made of light so pure the darkness could never touch them. The witch thought that if she caged those lights, she could open the biggest lock of all….the one on the door behind all doors."
I frown at the ceiling, my night light giving it an otherworldly look. "That's rude," I say. "You can't just take people because they're shiny."
"No," Mom agrees, stroking my bangs away from my eyes. "But sometimes darkness thinks it deserves whatever it can reach. And in the boy's own heart, there was a dark corner where jealousy and fear whispered. His storm-brave friend listened to that corner for a time, thinking that power would help him protect what he loved. He turned away from the boy he called his friend and walked together with the witch."
I clutch my stuffed lion (his name is Captain Crumbs) and hold him like he might try to float away from me. "I wouldn't," I whisper. "I'd just…." I stop, thinking of Dad's heavy fire jacket by the door, the way it smells like smoke, rain, and ashes. "I'd be brave and kind and bring a really big cookie."
"That," Mom says, smiling, "is exactly your way." Her fingers trace lazy circles on my shoulders comforting me. "The boy kept choosing that way, too. Choosing to believe that light is a muscle you grow by using. And so he kept moving forward. He climbed a castle made of emptiness, where the witch tried to twist his heart into a key made of hurt. He fought, he fell, he stood up. He learned that sometimes the only way to open a lock is to offer what you love most."
I squint. "Like…sharing your last cookie?"
"Exactly like that," she says. "He shared his own heart. He gave it up to save one of the maidens, his gentle friend with a smile like the sunrise, because hers had been sleeping inside his heart since the night the islands went away. He unlocked himself, so she could wake."
My eyes do that thing they do when you're sad. I tuck my face against Mom's shoulder so she can't see, because I am brave like a firefighter or hero and brave people only cry a little bit where it's safe. "Did he die?"
"For a moment," Mom says, and there's a hush in the room like it's listening. "He turned into one of the shadow-things. But the girl he saved found him again. She held his hand and said, 'I remember you.' And remembering is a kind of magic of the heart too. He came back."
I pull the quilt up to my chin and sniff once. "Good."
"Together," Mom says, "the boy and his friends followed the witch's master, a man who wore another man's name like a stolen coat, they followed him into the place at the end of all the worlds. There, he opened the Door to the Dark. The boy lifted his key, and the small king lifted the twin from the far side, and the two keys sang to each other. Light poured through like the morning pouring into a room when you finally pull back the curtains."
"Did it hurt the Dark?" I ask.
"It taught it manners," Mom says. "And when the door began to close, the boy saw his sunrise-gentle friend standing on the shore of the world they'd lost, safe at last. He promised he'd come back to her like always. Then he and his brave friend, no longer lost to whispers of power, walked the two different roads between places, knowing that promises are keys, too. They lock you to the people you love, so you never drift apart."
I press Captain Crumbs to my mouth so I won't squeal because I have eleven questions…. approximately. The most important one is a tactical one though: "So… the key…blade," I mumble through the lion's fluff. "Was it, like, one-handed or two-handed? And could you use it to open snack cabinets?.... Hypothetically."
Mom laughs gently, the sound like the clink a teaspoon makes against a mug. "One-handed, but it becomes exactly what it needs to be in the hands of someone who believes in others. And yes, if you are truly noble and also very hungry, I suppose it could also unlock a cookie jar. But remember," she adds, tapping my nose, "you must always relock the jar after."
"Honorable raiding," I say solemnly as I look down in sadness. Then I try to hold in my next thought because I can feel it coming to the tip of my tongue. I failed. "If I had one, I'd add a little guard on the bottom and maybe a secret compartment for a-.....okay I'll be quiet now."
Mom gently kisses my forehead. "Your heart is a workshop," she says, amused. "Just like your dad's is a firehouse."
I wriggle closer to mom, blanket rubbing up against my pajamas. "Did the boy get to go home?"
"Not right away," Mom says, smoothing the quilt so it hugs my shoulders. "Sometimes 'Excalibur' takes the long way around. But he carried home with him, every friend he made, every promise, every bit of light he chose on purpose. That's the trick of a good heart. It's a lantern you can tuck under your ribs. Even when you walk through the darkness, you are never truly alone."
I breathe in her words. It tastes like toothpaste and the cinnamon of Mom's hand lotion and the secret minty cold of the night air sneaking past the open window. "I'd help him," I say into the quilt. "If he needed it. I'd bring snacks and be polite to scary monsters until they weren't monsters anymore. And if they were still monsters I'd bonk them kindly with my big sword."
"I know you would," Mom says. "You'd be the bravest little captain. But right now the bravest thing you can do is close your eyes and rest. You have to store up your courage tomorrow, and pillows are very efficient at that."
I think about it for a bit. Pillows as batteries. I start to picture plugging myself in with a cord made of blanket. My eyes start to flutter and feel heavy. "Mom?"
"Mm?"
"If you meet a door in the sky, don't open it without me, okay.."
She smiles into my hair. I can feel it. "Deal. We can open the big doors together."
I let that promise settle, warm and heavy, like an extra quilt laying on top of me. The room becomes quiet in the special way our house does when Dad is home and the world is ordinary again….like the walls are humming their own lullaby. I try to hold onto the details of the story I want to ask about in the morning.
The exact jingle of the key's charm, the weight distribution of it, whether the small king's coat had pockets for snacks. I tuck those questions into a neat little stack in my head.
Just don't wake up Mom tonight to ask about possible scabbard designs, Madison. Tomorrow is a bigger day for all of your curiosity.
Mom slides out from behind me just enough to turn down the corner of the quilt and smooth the sheet under my chin the way she always does. "Good night, my Madison," she whispers, tucking me in like she always does.
I reach one hand out and catch her fingers as she leaves. "Good night, Mom," I say, and then I continue in a softer tone, "Thanks for the story. I'm gonna dream of the raft named 'Excalibur'."
"Then dream well," she says. Mom kisses my knuckles. The night light drapes her hair in gold as she leans over and tucks in the last edge of the blanket under my chin so it holds me in place..
The door softly closes shut. I just lie there smiling as my eyes slowly close, my heart busy building bright things in the dark.
- - - - - - -
Many Years Later
BGM: Lazy Afternoons - Yoko Shimomura
The song "Lazy Afternoons" trickles into my room like warm sunlight that's coming through blinds, soft and drowsy. The soft melody is so familiar that I smile before I'm even awake enough to remember why it's playing. Then the tempo nudges me and I one tired arm to feel across the nightstand, slap twice at the empty air, and finally hit the snooze button. The music cuts off. The room exhales into quiet peace that I can onlt find in my own room.
For a second I lie there blinking at the ceiling. As my brain tries to remember what I am even supposed to be doing today. It's the weekend, I think. I'm going to see my friends today. Do not dive for your phone and send eleven all-caps texts at seven in the morning. Be cool for once, Madison.
I roll onto my side and my room looks back at me, the same as it used to be, but also not the same as it once was. The little bookcase still leans a bit, because I once decided it could be used for a fort wall. But the pink fairy decals Mom stuck up on the side of it when I was tiny are half-hidden behind new things on the shelfs. A poster of a blue heart with a golden crown at the top glows faintly where it catches the morning light from my window. On my dresser, the tiny Paopu fruit keychain I saved up for at a convention sits next to a faded seashell from a family trip I found. I still like to line the seashells up in pairs on my desk. It makes the morning feel more orderly to me.
My desk is where the chaos of my room lives.
A plastic stand holds my favorite custom FGO figures, the ones I arranged after arguing with myself for an hour about their composition. Artoria is there in her blue and silver battle dress, feet braced, blade lifted. Mordred beside her caught mid-step with that cocky grin. And Mash standing proudly with her shield angled like she is about to protect the world from disaster.
I keep a little microfiber cloth nearby to dust them off and I don't let anyone else touch them. They are my tiny people but also tiny promises I made to myself. I pretend not to notice them every time I wake up.
I peel myself out of the blankets and sit on the edge of the bed, my toes searching for my blue slippers. The old night light is gone; the glow now comes from a strip of soft LEDs along my bookshelf and the morning light that sneaks past my curtains. The room has been rearranged over the years since that night, it's grown, became cluttered and well…it's mine.
My toes find the rug underneath them as I stand up stretching. The room is quiet enough that I can hear the faint hum of the bathroom fan that I always keep on. I reach over and check my phone, then set it down again before my thumb can open the group chat knowing that if I do I won't be able to put it down again.
The bathroom is only a few steps away, but the tile is so cold against my feet, so I hop quickly towards it. The mirror over the sink is fog-free and pristine. A lithe girl blinks back at me, pillow-creases on one cheek, hair loose from its ponytail. My eyes look extra sea-green in the morning somehow.
My hair has given up being anything but itself. Light blond, loose to my shoulder blades, and that ridiculous ahoge sprung up like it slept well and had its own plans for the day.
I push it down. It curls back up. We stare at each other for a few seconds. I try again. It wins. The ahoge always wins.
"Okay," I tell the mirror with a pout. "Truce."
I then cup cold water in my hands and splash it against my face letting it drip off, as the world tightens into focus. The sleepy fuzz drains away and I feel more like I fit inside my own body again.
I then make my way over to the shower before turning it on and getting in. A hot shower is always the best first thing in the morning. I let the water run over my shoulders until I can feel my thoughts line up in their usual order.
Today: meet up at the cafe with my friends, don't immediately gush about a weapon's balance that I saw in that trailer for my favorite game last night, maybe do the sensible thing and ask how everyone's week was before you talk about weapons.
Afterwards, I brush my teeth until the taste of mint fills my head. Then taking up the hairbrush I brush my hair with longer strokes than I used to when I was younger, taking my time with it. Tangles surrender one by one as I softly brush my hair out.
I then gather the length into my hands, twist, and tie it up into the ponytail that feels like it always does. The ribbon sitting on the sink is a small black bow with a soft sheen to it, it's the one Mom gave me when I turned ten years old. It has held a lot of my mornings together since then.
I tie it so the tails of the bow sit even and give it a gentle pat, the way Mom used to do after tucking me in every night.
The ahoge, defiant as ever, curves back in its small triumphant curl on the top of my head. Fine. Keep the antenna. Maybe it helps detect new friends or something.
Back in my room, I let the music from the alarm play out this time since I only snoozed it the first time, and hummed along with it as I moved. The melody is my favorite part of the song, I mean it's just so catchy. I pult on casual clothes without thinking too hard about it. Soft tee shirt, a royal blue zip up hoodie, blue jeans that fit just right, and sneakers that are colored with a color scheme of blue, white, and gold.
I almost pick the shirt with the giant Kingdom Heart's emblem on it to wear, then choose the regular one instead. Subtle is allowed. Subtle is cool. I am a cool person who does not plan conversations with her friends in her head like a script.
I am definitely not making a list right now of topics that are normal and not "what if a key-blade had the ability to change different forms completely?."
I don't go over to open my notebook where, hypothetically, there might be a page or two, or three of sketches and blueprints for exactly that. I just glance at it once, feel my fingers twitch, and then make the grown-up decision to put chapstick on my lips instead.
On the nightstand is a photo in a black simple frame. Mom, younger there than I am now, reading to a tangle of blankets and hair that's me. The corner of the old book shows in the photo as well. Every time I see it, I hear my mom's soft voice and how the bed dipped when she leaned in to tuck the covers under my chin. I never get tired of that echo from I feel every time I see it. I don't stare, just touch the glass with two of my fingers the way you check a pan to see if it's still warm. The photo is always warm.
My gaze lands on the figures again sitting proudly on my desk. The Pendragon pair practically gleam even in the mild morning light. I should not rearrange them right now. We tried this last week and it took thirty minutes and a full-scale debate with myself. Still, I nudge Mordred half a centimeter so she lines up with Artoria better. Perfect. I step back, having to will myself to not touch them again.
I toss my small white sling bag over my shoulder and check the pockets. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Phone? Double check. A folded napkin with a doodle of a crown I made yesterday when I was bored? Uh check.
I fold it smaller and tuck it in with the cards in my wallet. Just in case I need it later during the day for some reason.
When I pass the wall space above my desk, I pause at the poster signed by a cosplayer who did the most amazing Armored Aqua cosplay I have ever seen. I took a photo with her and then forgot how to speak for three seconds straight afterwards.
The message reads: "For Madison, keep choosing the light." I grin every time I see it. I do now too, a small one.
Before I forget though, I make my bed. The old habit sticks; it makes the room feel reset. Captain Crumbs 'the lion from forever ago' still lives on my pillow. He's frayed around the ears and a little lopsided from too many washes, but I tuck him against the headboard like a guardian of dreams. The raft named Excalibur drifts through the corner of my brain, and I smile without meaning to.
I poke my head back into the bathroom to double-check myself in the mirror. The ribbon looks nice and neat. The ponytail sits where it should. The ahoge salutes the day. My face is still my face, more awake now than it used to be. I practice a smile that is not a full-on squeal. It almost works. I add a deep breath and let it out. Much better.
Taking my phone out of my bag, I open the up group chat, typing slowly making sure I don't miss a key. "Heading out in a bit. See you all at ten?" There. Mature. No exclamation points. I erase one extra heart emoji before it can betray me and hit send.
The replies come in fast. Thumbs-up. A sticker of a cat holding a coffee cup. A message saying "Bring that thing you were sketching yesterday in class." I glance over at the notebook again. I absolutely will bring it. Don't sprint to your bag in excitement Madison. You already packed a pen to write anything else you might come up with during the day with it.
Behind the soft music, I can hear the house start to move as I put the notebook in my bag. A drawer closing somewhere. Water running in the kitchen.
Then it hits me, curling through the hallway towards my room. Butter, sugar, something toasty. Pancakes or maybe French Toast. My stomach is telling me that I need to hurry my butt up.
I take one last look around my room. The heart-and-crown poster of Kingdom Hearts. The tiny seashells. The figures that sit on my desk. My old photo on the nightstand. My bed, made but a little messy because I was impatient making it. Everything I love is here, anchored to walls, shelves, and the shape of this space I call my room.
"Okay," I tell the room around me, it feels like telling myself. "Let's be the person who doesn't talk about weapon specs first thing in the morning."
The scent of food suddenly grows richer. Definitely cinnamon. I fail to keep my mouth from watering and laugh at myself for failing completely. I flick off my light, pull my hoodie zipper up halfway, and step toward the hall.
Breakfast first. Then go see my friends. Then maybe a very reasonable amount of excited squeaking. I can be mature for five minutes at least.
BGM: END
- - - - - - -
I push my bedroom door open and slip out into the hall, closing it softly. The latch clicks behind me and the quiet out here always feels so much different from the soft comfortable hum of my room.
Family pictures line the walls, so I start down the hall a little slower than I meant to. There is the one picture of Mom and Dad at their wedding, laughing instead of posing properly, cake on Dad's nose. Next to it is a baby me in an oversized fire helmet, chin wobbling because the thing was almost bigger than I was. A few steps further, is the picture where I am missing my two front teeth and holding my first plastic toy sword like it is the greatest sword of all time.
I like walking past these photos. It feels like checking your old save files from your favorite video games.
Halfway down the hallway now, my eyes land on a door on the wall across from mine. It's painted a plain white, closed, the same as it always is. I stop without meaning to in front of it.
This was supposed to be my sister's room.
I just look at it for a moment, my fingers idly rubbing the strap of my sling bag I'm wearing over my shoulder.
When I was little, Mom and Dad told me that the stork who delivers babies had just gotten lost on his route to our house. I know better now obviously, but some tiny part of my brain still pictures a big ridiculous bird flying through the sky looking for our house. Maybe he was just stuck in traffic. Maybe he took a wrong turn somewhere at the big clouds a while back.
It would have been fun I think, to have someone to share my blueprints with and argue over who gets to use my favorite soldering iron. Someone who would roll their eyes when I rambled about anything that just pops up in my head and then secretly steal my ideas.
I don't stare at the door for too long. If I let myself reminisce about the possibilities, I will be here all morning. Instead I pull my gaze away from it and that's when the smell from the kitchen hits my nose again, stronger now. Warm cinnamon, egg, sugar, the edge of something toasting. Definitely French Toast.
My stomach gives a very clear opinion about priorities.
The scent tugs at me like a hand on my sleeve and I move, feet moving down the hall. I pass the entrance of the living room without even looking in it. My fingers then brush something familiar on the wall. A door knob, a little lower than the others made for me being small, marked with a strip of black tape.
My workshop's door.
Feeling that snaps me out of the breakfast trance. I take a second to look at the plain door and my ahoge twitches like it is trying to point at it.
Inside my workshop, there are half-finished things on every flat surface possible. The gutted refrigerator compressor I rescued when our old fridge died and we had to get a new one, waiting to become part of another cooling system.
The tower of a PC I dismantled just to see if I could re-route its guts into something of a sleeker make and model. The stack of controllers behind it, the old microwave shell across the room, and the box of gears/springs next to the bin of screws that don't technically match anything that I could find to fit them to.
And in the corner of the room, on my favorite workbench, the real treasures. My items of interest. Mom and Dad just calls them 'Weapons' with that capital letter in their voices whenever they talk about them. But to me, they are so much more than that, they are my baby's.
There is a practice blade I made with a trigger mechanism that lets it click into a slightly different shape when you press it in just the right way. There is the not-quite-a-spear with the telescoping shaft grafted onto it, made from scavenged metal and treated wood that I found in a junk yard one time.
On the wall behind them, my blueprints.
There are so many of them pinned up on the wall that they are staring to layer over one another. One is for a key-shaped training sword that I swear I will finish before my senior year, a design that borrows just enough from Kingdom Hearts to feel just right, but not enough to get me sued into another universe. Another blueprint is a rough sketch of a shield that can fold into a backpack that can transform easily between the two states, absolutely inspired by Mash, if we are being honest.
And in the small attached garage where Mom and Dad let me set it up, my little blacksmith forge waits too. The thought of it makes my hands buzz and fidget with excitement. I can almost hear the soft roar of the burner and smell the metal when it starts to shift color, that deep cherry glow that means it is ready to be shaped.
Ohhhhh yeah.
The first time they surprised me with it, I nearly cried in front of them all day. I pretended I didn't, but the pictures they took of me say otherwise.
I reach out subconsciously, fingers curling around the door handle. I could peek in, just for a second…. Check that I turned the gas valve fully off last night. Maybe straighten the blueprint where the corner keeps curling every time I try to fix it. I could possibly sketch one little adjustment idea before I go. It wouldn't take too long.
"If you go in there, you're going to lose an hour. You know this, Madison." I mumble to myself.
The French toast smell sweeps past me again, thick and sweet, and my stomach growls loud enough to make my mouth twitch. The clock in my brain reminds me that I am supposed to be meeting my friends later today.
I could always show them that new sketch that I thought up yesterday. Just thinking about it sends a spark of excitement up my spine that almost forces me back towards my room to grab my notebook, but since I already packed it I guess I don't even have to worry about it. Look at me being all mature.
I let my hand fall away from my workshop door.
"Later," I murmured under my breath. My ahoge dips like it is sulking and then pops back up immediately after smelling the food once again.
Turning my back on my half-finished projects feels like I'm leaving a piece of myself behind, but the smell of this morning's breakfast and not being late to my friends' meet up win's me over this time. I force myself to keep going, following the warmth and the sound of the quiet clinks from the kitchen.
Our kitchen is full of morning light from our windows, it's bright on the countertops and catching in the little dust motes that float lazily in the air.
Mom is standing at her favorite stove, a pan in one hand held in front of her. Her long golden blond hair falls down her back in soft waves, almost to her waist in length, the ends brushing against the simple white sweater she's wearing. I catch the glint of the little earrings Dad bought her for their anniversary hanging from her ears.
She flips a slice of French Toast just as I step into the room. Cinnamon, vanilla, browned edges. My mouth actually waters at the sight and smell.
I don't know why, but when it comes to food I always cave into any demands. Even when I try to fight it, I can't.
Mom hears my footsteps and turns. Her bright emerald green eyes find me in an instant and crinkle at the corners.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," she says, smiling. "I was wondering when your music was going to finally drag you out of bed."
I cross the tile of our floor to reach her without bothering to pretend I am cooler than I actually am and slip my arms around her from the side. She is warm and smells like shampoo, sugar, and home.
"Morning, Mom," I say into her shoulder. "The music tried its best, okay. I just resisted heroically."
She laughs and squeezes me back with one arm, careful not to tilt the pan with the other. "Well, your heroic resistance is over now. Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."
From the table behind me, a familiar voice speaks up in a wounded tone. "What, no good morning for your old man?"
I turn and look over. Dad is sitting comfortably at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in one hand and his bright blue eyes looking at his phone in the other.
His short dark brown hair is still slightly damp from taking a shower, sticking up in the front where he didn't bother to flatten it. The navy blue fire department shirt fits his shoulders and chest like it always does, and he already has on his gray and yellow firefighter suit pants, the suspenders hanging loose around his hips for now.
He looks like he could get a call any second for a fire and be out the door in under a minute. That thought is always there in the back of my mind, but I try to not think about it too much.
I let go of Mom and make my way over to him, bumping my shoulder lightly against his as I pass to my usual seat.
"Morning, Dad," I say. "I didn't forget you. I was just drawn in by the smell of French Toast. It was pure survival instincts on my part."
"Sure, sure," he replies, setting his phone down. "Blame the food. Come here you."
He hooks an arm around me for a quick hug before I sit down properly. His embrace is solid and familiar, the fabric of his shirt rough under my cheek for the brief second that we hug.
"So," he asks as I pull out my chair to sit, setting my bag on the ground beside it, "what is the plan for today, kiddo? I remember something about you invading the city with your little gang you always hang out with."
"It is not an invasion, Dad," I say, picking at a spot on the table where the varnish chipped exasperatedly. "We are just meeting at the cafe at ten, then maybe swinging by the game store on the way back. I also might show them a new idea that I have been working on for the past few days."
Just talking about it makes me want to go into a full explanation about it. I can feel it, my mouth ready to talk about structural integrity and the way a blade could change shape mid-swing, something half-keyblade, half-lance. My hands twitch on my lap. A tick of mine wherever I get too excited.
Take it easy. They don't need the full blueprint lecture before coffee.
Dad raises an eyebrow. "A new idea, huh? It's not going to shoot lasers in the house, is it?"
"That was one time," I mutter, fighting a smile. "And it barely counted as a laser."
Mom slides a plate in front of me before he can tease me any more. Thick slices of French Toast sit in a neat stack, edges crisped to gold, a dusting of powdered sugar starting to melt into little lines on top of them. She sets down a small bowl of sliced strawberries(My Favorite) next to them too.
"No lasers at the cafe, please," she says. "And text me when you get there, okay honey. I like to know where my mad scientist is doing her plotting."
"Yes, Mom," I say automatically. But then I remember my manners and possibly feel a little guilty, "I will. I Promise."
She brushes my shoulder with her fingers as she moves back to the stove. There is already another plate waiting, probably for herself, and one more slice in the pan for Dad. He pretends he doesn't care about French Toast, but we all know better.
I drown my breakfast in maple syrup, not quite as much as I used to when I was eight, then take the first bite.
The outside is lightly crisp, the inside soft and warm with cinnamon. I moan at the taste. It is ridiculous how good it tastes.
I eat faster than I mean to. Excitement keeps making my fork move. Every time I remember something I want to tell my friends, my pace increases. I stop myself halfway through the second slice of toast and make a conscious effort to slow down before Dad can say anything.
"Big day, huh?" he says anyway, watching me over his coffee. "You are inhaling that like we never feed you anything."
"I'bm carb-loabing," I say with as much dignity as possible with my mouth full. I swallow and add, "We might be out for a while today though."
Mom sits down with her own plate and gives me that look that is half amused and half mom-serious. "Out for a while is fine, as long as you answer your phone and don't try to bring home anything that belongs in a scrap yard."
"I can't make any promises if the scrap yard calls to me Mom," I say, then grin when she narrows her eyes in a fake glare. "I am kidding….. Mostly."
We talk a little more about nothing big. Dad mentions a training drill that him and his buddies will have later in the week. Mom asks who exactly is coming today to meet me today and reminds me that if anyone wants to stay for dinner, she needs to know before she starts cooking. I tuck away the offer just in case it comes up. The normal rhythm of their voices settles around me like its own kind of comfort.
My plate empties faster than I expect it to. I scrape up the last bit of syrup with the edge of my fork and sit back contentedly.
"Thank you for breakfast," I say. "It was perfect Mom."
"You are very welcome," She replies. "Now go rinse off your plate before you dash off to god knows where."
I do as I'm told, carrying my dirty plate to the sink and washing it off quickly. The clock over the stove tells me that I am right on schedule. Adrenaline pricks at my fingertips. Meeting my friends at the Cafe, I can't wait. Maybe I can get real feedback on my design this time instead of just vibes of what it could be.
I wipe my hands off on a towel, grabbing my bag from where I propped it up against the chair, and head for the front door. My sneakers wait on the mat for me, so I slip them on, bouncing a little as I do on the balls of my heels. Not too much…..It's barely noticeable, okay.
Hand on the knob, I am inches from making my way out into the rest of the day when Mom's voice comes from behind me.
"Madison." She says in that soft caring way she always does.
I pause and turn back to look at her. She is standing a few steps away from me, dish towel hung over her shoulder, eyes looking into mine softly. For a second, I see her as she was in that old photo from back in the day, sitting on the edge of my bed with a storybook in her lap.
She crosses the space between us easily, reaches up to my face, and smooths a thumb under my eye. Then she leans in and kisses my cheek.
"Have a good day, sweetheart," she says smiling. "Text me when you get there, alright?"
"Yeah," I say, cheeks warming a little. "I will. I Love you."
"Love you too honey."
Dad lifts his mug toward me from the table. "Have fun, kiddo. Be safe. Try not to dismantle anything that belongs to someone else without permission!"
"No promises," I shoot back automatically, then grin. "I'm kidding. I Promise I won't. And I love you too, Dad."
"Love you," he replies as he goes back to his coffee.
I let the moment sit for half a heartbeat longer, soaking in the way the house feels when they are both here and everything is simpler. Then I turn the door knob and step out into the world.
Time to go be another person in this wide world. Time to see my friends. Time to maybe, gently as I can, show someone the inside of my head in blueprint form.
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