A Fateful Family Gathering
Nathan Cold Ashen sat at the crowded dining table, the warm glow of the overhead lights casting a golden hue over the Thanksgiving feast spread before him. His family—his parents Stephan and Gordie, along with his grandparents—laughed and chatted around him, the air thick with the scent of roasted turkey, cranberry sauce, and his grandmother's famous pumpkin pie, making the evening feel like a rare pocket of normalcy in his increasingly chaotic life as a 19-year-old writer and researcher.
Stephan, with his gravelly voice that carried a venomous edge when he was irritated, dominated the conversation in his casual, bittersweet way, sharing stories from his days as a war vet turned farmer. At 47, he wore a pair of deep blue eye contacts today, hiding whatever his true eye color might be, and Nathan noticed how his father fidgeted with the edge of his plate, a telltale sign of his OCD kicking in as he aligned everything just so. "You know, son," Stephan said, his tone inspiring as he leaned back in his chair, "after ten years in the army, I thought I'd seen it all—the dust, the chaos, the endless fights. But out on the ranch now, with your mother, it's the simple things that make life worth it. Like this dinner, right here." He paused to take a sip of his favorite whiskey-laced coffee, a drink he had multiple times a day, and muttered to himself under his breath, "Keep it together, keep it straight," before offering a heartwarming smile that softened his rugged features.
Gordie, ever the high-ranking businesswoman at 48, fluttered around the table with her lighthearted grace, her serene presence making even the clinking of silverware sound melodic. She needless apologized as she passed the mashed potatoes, saying, "Oh, sorry, dear, did I bump your arm?" while subtly eavesdropping on a side conversation between Nathan's grandparents. Her habit of chewing gum quietly as she spoke added a rhythmic backdrop to her words, and she daydreamed aloud about romantic getaways, her voice businesslike yet infused with romance. "Wouldn't it be lovely if we all took a trip somewhere, just like in those old movies Nathan loves?" she said, glancing at him with a knowing wink, her calming aura extending even to the family dog, who nuzzled her leg under the table. Animals always seemed to gravitate toward her, as if she carried an invisible peace with her.
Nathan, immersed in the moment, felt a surge of witty passion as he chimed in, his simple style of speaking cutting through the chatter. As a huge fan of TV shows and movies, especially The Walking Dead, he couldn't resist drawing parallels. "You know, this reminds me of those family dinners in apocalyptic stories," he said with an adventurous glint in his eye, his OCD making him straighten his napkin obsessively before continuing. "Everyone gathered, sharing laughs, but always with that underlying tension—like something's about to shatter the peace." He was autistic and creative, his mind racing with ideas from the books he devoured daily, but he sometimes struggled to read the room, missing the subtle cues in his family's expressions. Still, his intelligence shone through as he adapted quickly, turning the conversation toward lighter topics. "Grandpa, tell us that story again about the old farm," he urged, his tone passionate and engaging, though he talked a bit too fast, his neat appearance—shirt tucked in perfectly—betraying his need for order.
The evening unfolded with dramatic flair, the realism of their everyday lives blending with the emotional intensity that came from years of shared history. Nathan's grandparents, both in their seventies, added their own layers to the scene—his grandfather with his booming laugh and tales of simpler times, his grandmother with her gentle prodding about Nathan's writing career. As dessert arrived, Nathan excused himself, saying, "I'll be right back; I just need to grab something from the truck." He stepped out into the cool November night, the crisp air biting at his skin as he headed toward his beat-up pickup parked in the driveway. The stars twinkled overhead, and for a moment, he felt a philosophical pull, wondering about the vastness of life and the adventures that might lie beyond his quiet existence.
But the peace shattered in an instant. A massive pickup truck, its engine roaring like a beast, came hurtling down the street, driven by a wild-eyed man whose intentions were as murky as they were malicious. Nathan barely had time to turn, his hand on the door of his truck, when the vehicle slammed into him with ferocious force. Metal crunched against metal, and pain exploded through his body as he was thrown backward, the world spinning into a blur of darkness and screams. His last conscious thought was a fragmented prayer, whispered in desperation: "Whatever god's out there, make this stop."
When Nathan's eyes fluttered open, the world had shifted into something unrecognizable. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above him, and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils. He lay in a hospital bed, his tiny body swaddled in blankets, confusion washing over him like a tidal wave. A woman with a professor's poised demeanor—Olmiela Ashen, though he didn't know her name yet—held him gently, her academic style evident in the way she murmured soothing words. "There, there, little one," she said in an inspiring, lighthearted tone laced with romance, her eyes soft with maternal affection. Beside her stood a man, Tomen Ashen, 25 and built like a combat trainer, his cheerful hope radiating as he squeezed her shoulder. "He's perfect, isn't he?" Tomen said, his casual voice nostalgic, as if this newborn moment was a new beginning for them all.
Nathan, now an infant in this strange new reality, felt an inexplicable magic humming beneath his skin, though he was too disoriented to grasp it. The drama of his past life faded like a distant dream, leaving only the adventure of this unfamiliar world ahead.