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2017

Farrokh put several weeks' worth of effort into developing Erik's social skills, but the boy never quite caught on. Finally, Erik said, "I am done with these little chats. If you want to have fake dialogues, let us at least rehearse Shakespeare. I think Richard the III would be ideal."

While always helpful when people needed him, Farrokh had never been a social butterfly, usually immersed in his books and research. Maybe he just wasn't the one for this job. He suggested to Erik's father that they find a therapist who excelled at helping children communicate. Farrokh never knew if the man did so, but he quietly returned his focus back to academics. If they needed to unwind or break, they would sometimes play a quiet game of chess. Erik usually won. Amidst science experiments and lessons, as Erik began to completely teach himself, Farrokh ignored the darkening clouds on the horizon. Until a day came when they could no longer be overlooked.

The air was particularly icy that day, and Farrokh could feel the chill seep through his leather coat and gloves. Sometimes he wondered if he should take his twenty-five-year-old daughter up on her offer to move him out to California. No- he needed to see this project out to its end. He'd already invested so much time into Erik, and he would not feel satisfied until the boy was on his way to college, free from the irritated gaze of his father and from the house that held little warmth.

The home was especially quiet as Farrokh walked inside that afternoon. He'd been asked to come later in the day and didn't question the reason. Erik's father was sitting at the kitchen table, leaning forward with his right hand over his mouth. A green wine bottle and a clear glass were beside him. "I probably should have let you have the entire day off," he murmured, briefly glancing up and lowering his hand. He didn't appear to be drunk, but there was a very troubled glint in his eyes.

"Is everything okay?" Farrokh asked, removing his coat and sitting in the chair beside him.

"Eh." Erik's father turned to face him with a sigh. "I took him to an appointment. Well, a consultation. To assess surgical possibilities."

"Oh? Any good news?"

"Not especially. Erik's immune system is highly sensitive. They think a transplant would not be in his best interests, at least not any time soon. The drugs he'd have to take for the rest of his life, assuming they even worked, would destroy his health within ten years. And I'm sure they're terrified of more lawsuits after…." He shook his head. "Lena made this more of a mess than it ever needed to be."

"What a shame," Farrokh murmured.

"It seems like we keep making it worse." He took a drink of wine. "They want to wait until he's at least eighteen. Even then, there aren't any guarantees."

"Well, you know," Farrokh softly began. "It's a modern world. People are more tolerant."

He grunted. "Maybe I can at least get him a false nose. It's amazing, some of the things they have these days. You can get a fake face made that attaches to the bone with magnets, you know that?"

"You mean he doesn't…have a nose?" Farrokh reflexively scratched his own.

"That's right. You've never even seen his face. If he lets you, take a look. When he was a baby, my wife had people go into hysterics when they saw him. One lady even called 9-11—reported that Lena was pushing around a corpse in a stroller. No wonder she went insane."

"I am so sorry," said Farrokh, having no other words. They sat in silence for a couple more moments before he excused himself and went upstairs. Of course, the door to Erik's room was tightly closed. After a brief hesitation, he knocked. "It's Farrokh."

"I do not want to see you."

At least that was better than: Go away.

"I just thought we could have a chat." He thought fast. "I have an interesting scientific article to show you."

After several seconds, the door slowly opened. Farrokh walked inside, noting that, at fifteen, Erik was as tall as he was now—and still growing. The boy stared him directly in the eye. "Well?"

Farrokh pulled out a magazine from his briefcase. "Look at this, Erik. The government has been designing miniature robots that look like insects for weapons and spy devices. They're deadly and undetectable."

"That is what you want to show me? That is old news." Still, he took the magazine, sat on his bed, and quickly read through the article. "They have made more advances. Except…."

"Except what?"

"They are still very ugly insects. Like mosquitoes. People will want them to go away." Erik paused. "If they were beautiful, like butterflies, people would want them to stay, right? They would be more effective spying devices."

"Well, maybe. But, if they were more colorful, people would notice them. Mosquitoes blend in. But people might look more closely at a butterfly and see that it's not real."

"That is why you have to make them perfect. So that they appear to be real butterflies even if they are inches away from your face."

Farrokh scratched the back of his head and chuckled. "Perfection is hard to obtain."

"But not impossible, Farrokh."

"I guess not." He hesitated and then placed a cautious hand on the boy's narrow shoulder. "Erik, I'm very sorry about what you learned today. Don't give up hope, though."

Erik chuckled coldly and flinched away from Farrokh's touch. "Hope? It's a ridiculous concept. There is action, and there is no action. Any idiot who sits around hoping for something is wasting his miserable life."

Farrokh winced. The resentment in Erik was building with each passing year. "Sometimes hope is all one has."

"Then they have nothing."

It was worth a try. "Erik, would you mind letting me see your face? I'm not a doctor, well not a medical doctor, but maybe I could help find a solution. There are hospitals all over the world, each with their own specialties. I could research it for you, once I know what we're dealing with."

Erik glared, quickly jumping to his feet and backing up into the wall like a cornered animal. "I do not need you vomiting on my carpet. The stench would never come out."

"I have seen many, many things in my lifetime. Wounds from war even. While I know your face hasn't made life easy for you, I'm sure that I can look. I only want to help."

"Yes, Farrokh always wants to help, doesn't he? But I know you are curious. Everyone always is." Erik paused. "Still, I don't expect you to scream or faint like a woman. No. What will you do? Will you maintain your dignity?" The yellow eyes challenged him.

Farrokh held firm. "I only want to help you."

"Of course you do." Slowly, Erik took his bony fingers and peeled back the flesh-colored material that encased his entire face. As his hand dropped to the side with the mask, he continued to look Farrokh directly in the eye.

It took him a couple of seconds to take it all in. Farrokh suddenly felt woozy, and his breath caught in his throat. A cold sweat formed on his forehead. He didn't want to throw up, but it took all of his willpower not to do so. Rapidly, he turned around and placed one hand against the wall to support himself. "I'm sorry. Just give me a moment, Erik," he managed to whisper. "I will be fine in a second. I promise."

But, with a heavy heart, he knew he had failed. Silence engulfed the room.

Erik spoke again first. "You, Farrokh," he said softly. "You are the most intelligent, reasonable person I have encountered. And it made you sick. You cannot even look at me. Where is your hope now?"

Farrokh slowly turned back around and was shamefully relieved that Erik had replaced the mask. "I'm sorry. Truly, I'm sorry. We'll figure something out," he said, forcing a smile. "I'll start researching medical facilities this very afternoon."

Erik laughed, and it sent a shiver down his spine. "You think I want to look like everyone else?! I hate everyone. So why the hell would I want to look like them? I'm smarter and better at everything than everyone! And I hate them! I hate them! And I don't want to look like them!" He brought his arm down against a nearby lamp and sent it crashing to the floor.

Farrokh stepped backward. "Erik…."

"Get out!" he rasped. "Get out now! And don't ever come back. I don't need you anymore. I never needed you! You've been nothing but a babysitter the entire time. So don't come back!"

"Erik…."

"Get out!"

A tear found its way down Farrokh's wrinkled cheek as he turned and left the room. Probably hearing the commotion, Erik's father immediately met him in the living room. With one glance at Farrokh's expression, he asked, "Did that kid give you problems?"

"No. Not at all." He hesitated, rubbed his arm, and then softly said, "But I am not sure that I should continue this job. I think Erik is old enough to be by himself, to teach himself. He already has the knowledge of a college junior, probably even higher when it comes to the sciences. The online college classes will be enough. And then he can choose a university and start his life."

Erik's father gaped. "What? No. You're the only person in that kid's life. What the hell did he say to you? I'll make him apologize."

"No. Look. He was right. I am nothing but a babysitter now. I'd hoped to remain his friend, but—I have enjoyed teaching him. It has been a unique experience that I'm very grateful for. But all things must end."

The man's head drooped, and he appeared extremely lost. "I'm really sorry to hear this. You're right. He is old enough. But…Jesus, you've been more of a father to him than me these last four, five years. You know that?"

Farrokh rested a hand on his arm. "I will contact you if I find any medical breakthroughs that might help Erik. You both are always free to call me if I can be of any help. Otherwise, make sure he goes to college. Make sure he finds his place in the world." Or I fear he might destroy it….

Guilt tugged at his conscience as he left Erik's father standing in the middle of the living room. But Farrokh suddenly felt a dire need to escape the despair in that house. It was toxic and infectious—and it was beginning to take a toll on his sleep and health. If Erik didn't want him there anymore, then Farrokh could think of little reason to stay.

The next afternoon, while he was watching a documentary about the Middle Ages and trying to forget the previous day, his cell phone rang. Farrokh glanced at the name on the screen. Zari Nabavi. The sound of her voice immediately brought him a needed feeling of peace. "Hi there, Dad! What are you up to? Freezing your butt off, I bet."

"Yes, well, at least I can build a snowman. What do you build? A sandman?"

She laughed. "You're so weird."

"I am. Why don't you ever come visit me?"

"At this time of year? Why don't you visit me?" Her voice softened. "And you know how hard it is for me. To be up there. It always reminds me of mom."

"I know. Don't worry about it." He watched the snowflakes brush against the window glass.

"Please, please come down here. You'll love it; I promise. It'll be so much better for your health now that you're—"

"Old?" He chuckled. "Do you still have that hippy boyfriend of yours?"

"Dave is very nice, Dad. And he likes you a lot."

"Well…." He hesitated, suddenly picturing a bright sun and an ocean. "Maybe I will come down there for a vacation. I need it." Farrokh had to move the phone as she squealed into his ear.

He needed simplistic joy in his life again. Zari was a painter, and her colorful work reflected her personality. She'd once said, "I don't think I'm edgy enough for some of the other artists. But I don't care. I'm not going to paint stuff that depresses me." That was Zari; that was whom he needed right now. It was odd—but he'd never spoken to Erik of her. Maybe he'd subconsciously wanted to keep those two worlds apart.

They were the best three months he'd experienced in a while, tucked away in a quaint condo a couple miles away from the ocean. Farrokh often relaxed on the beach and drank ice tea, wearing a tacky straw hat and watching the sun rise and set. Zari took him on tours of all the major cities- San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego. Dave was still somewhat of a pothead, but Farrokh ignored him. Although he did once tell Zari, "Your neighbor is a dentist, you know? And not terrible looking."

"Oh, Dad."

"You can't blame an old man for trying."

When he returned to the Northeast, still unsure as to whether he would stay or go back to California, Farrokh warily made the phone call he had been dreading. A familiar deep voice answered. "Farrokh? Wow. It's good to hear from you. How are you?"

"Doing wonderful! Just came back from a visit with my daughter. How are you?"

"Well enough." Erik's father paused. "I'm seeing someone. It's gotten serious pretty fast."

"Ah. Good for you. Congrats! And Erik? How is he?"

Another pause. "He's…well."

Farrokh waited for more information. "Is he continuing with his studies?"

"Yeah. I think so. He, uh, he has some friends, I think."

"Friends?!" Farrokh felt his heart jump. "That's wonderful news! Who? I mean, what are they like?"

"I don't know. I don't ask questions. He just goes out at night sometimes. I let him be."

"Well, that's good news."

"Yeah. Kid's finally got friends. Can't ask for much more."

A heavy feeling settled in Farrokh's chest. Something wasn't quite right. His phone beeped, indicating another call coming in. Probably his daughter, wanting to know if he would be returning. "That's good news," he said again. "I'll keep in touch." The conversation soon ended.

It was none of his business now, Farrokh told himself. Erik had ordered him to go away, and he had. Maybe the boy had finally found some good friends his own age. Maybe everything was perfectly fine. One month later, Farrokh put his home up for sale and permanently headed out toward California. He only glanced back twice, his heart still heavy.

It was New Year's Day of 2018 when he received a call from an unfamiliar number. And that voice, ever more beautiful with age, immediately spoke: "I need your help, Farrokh. The words I said to you last time…they were not…I was not right of mind."

"Erik?" he whispered. He'd been having lunch with a visiting old colleague and quickly excused himself from the room. "Don't worry about that. What do you mean you need my help?"

"My father won't help." His voice was low and soft. "He's engaged now. He said he will not allow me to ruin what's left of his miserable life."

"What do you need, Erik?"

"I need to leave."

"For college?" Farrokh asked hopefully.

"No. I need to leave this horrid country."

"Why?"

"I am in trouble, Farrokh."

His heart skipped a beat. "Why? What did you do?" Theft? Drugs?

A long silence passed. "I have…."

"You have what?"

"Killed someone."

2038

Take several sheets of translucent yellow tissue paper. And then a few brown or tan ones. Some have little tears and jagged edges. Some have holes.

Now take a skinless human skull.

Sew the pieces of paper together, taking no care with the seams, and then hastily glue them to the bone. Some pieces stick better than others.

It was a patchwork quilt of horror.

That was Erik's face.

And it was now inches away from hers.

Mouth hanging open, Christine looked away and dizzily sunk to her knees. She sucked in air, trying to prevent herself from completely blacking out. She was underwater. He was raging at her, but she could only make out certain words. Vile. Ugly. Handsome, aren't I? Idiot girl! Surprised. My dear? Happy? My Beauty! Husband? Never! Forever!

Slowly…slowly, she looked back up. "Keep looking, Christine!" he screamed. "Look until your eyes melt out of their little sockets!"

The mask hadn't been replaced, and she felt the color drain from her face as she took the horrible visage in again. Erik lurched forward as though to grab her hair or strike her, and she lurched backward onto her hands. Shaking violently, she scooted herself under the kitchen table as though that would protect her from the storm. "Please," she whispered.

"Please?" he mimicked. "Please save you from Erik? Oh, my precious darling, no one can be saved from Erik. Not even Erik himself." There was a moment of silence during which she continued to breathe heavily beneath the table, wrapping her arms around her knees and curling into a ball.

"They managed to eradicate ugly," he softly continued. "For a while. But they did not eradicate me! You see, there are people who believe they are masters of the world. That they will solve all problems. Poverty. Hunger. Ugliness. But they fail, Christine. Like a virus, the more you try to fight it, the more it mutates. Until it explodes into a nightmare a thousand times worse than the original!"

She couldn't comprehend what he was saying. Christine remained silent, willing herself to become nothingness, to disappear and cease to exist.

"Get off the floor," he ordered. She hesitated. "The mask is replaced. Get off the floor!" His tone was too frightening not to obey.

She swallowed the bile in her mouth, climbed out from beneath the table, and stood onto wobbly legs. Christine still refused to look him in the eye, too afraid of what she would see in his gaze.

"Nothing changes, my beauty. My fiancée. My darling. Except now you will unfortunately know the face of your husband. But that is your loss. Not mine. I will finally have what is mine!" His cold hand moved beneath her chin and tilted her head upwards so that she was forced to look at him. "Still," he softly said. "I would prefer you didn't hate me. I want you to be happy. But that is your choice now." He paused. "I would never have to let you out again, you know? I would simply tell Cameron that you are being a very disobedient wife. And he would not question it, you know?"

"Yes," she whispered, feeling physically sick. "I know. Erik, I…I need to go back to bed now."

"Yes. Sleep, my beauty. Have happy dreams. Perhaps you will forget this nightmare."

She ran. As soon as she closed her bedroom door, she practically dove into the bathroom and vomited. It wasn't solely a reaction to his terrible face, more to the entire situation, to her upcoming fate and his cruel words. She would soon be forced to marry a terrifying, crazy man with the face of a corpse. How would she even get out of bed in the morning? Was dying a better option?

No, no, no. Stop it! You can't have those awful thoughts. Everything wasn't so bad until tonight. Take a deep breath and think….

Sitting hunched over on the bathroom rug, sweat-soaked hair plastered against her cheeks, Christine knew that the worst scenario would be if Erik never let her out again. Even in her despair and panic, she understood that she couldn't let everything fall apart. Not now. They had come so far with trust in the past few weeks, and she had nearly demolished it.

Erik wanted her to be an actress? Fine. She would be.

Sleep never came that night. She rested her head on the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut but remained wide awake, visions of his face and his voice replaying in her mind. Hours later, she gave up and emerged from her room, head held high. Her heart was rapidly pounding, and her hands were shaking. Still, Christine walked forward. He was at the piano. His shoulders tensed as she approached.

"Erik." Her voice was weak. She inhaled and made it stronger. "I wanted to tell you that you're so smart that your face doesn't matter. You're a genius. And you've taught me so many new things. And that's what matters."

"Ha! Didn't Cameron tell you that the Lord does not approve of liars?"

"I'm not lying. You're the smartest person I've ever met. The best musician, too. And that's more important than your face. I'm sorry I acted the way I did. I was just surprised. And then you yelled…."

He sighed. "Lying or not, you are so lovely. The fact that you will have such a hideous husband must be a disappointment."

"No. Nothing's changed. I just wanted to see who I was marrying."

He chuckled. "And you did, didn't you, my little night owl? You saw Erik. And you will never see him again."

She hesitated. "I know what you look like. But I still don't know that much about you."

"And you do not need to. It is a very boring tale." He waved her away. "Resume your studies. We will talk later."

Christine tiptoed away, still unsure as to whether she would have freedom. Asking directly would make her appear eager to leave. After reading the same sentence over and over from a textbook, she put it down with a sigh. She then went to the closet and took out the game board, only this time bringing a bag with more varied pieces. She didn't know how to set this one up. When Erik came into the kitchen and glanced down, she said, "I want to learn how to play chess today."

There was slight surprise in his eyes. "I cannot teach you everything in a day. Certainly the basic moves. But it is all much more complex than that."

"Well, we'll have more than a day to learn, right?"

"Right," he whispered, slowly sitting down. He took the pieces and carefully began to arrange them on the board.

"I like the horses."

"Those are knights, dear girl. And they have very special qualities."

It worked. He seemed to relax as he taught her how the pieces moved and the strategies involved, becoming more animated and less guarded, the glint of hostility fading from his eyes. Whatever her intentions, she slowly began to understand the game, even if she doubted that she'd ever be much good at it. Christine was quickly learning to adapt to this new world. To survive and manipulate when she had to do so.

Still, her heart wasn't yet frozen. She didn't hate Erik. Not at all, really. In fact, his horrible face made her feel kind of bad for him. The rest of him was still completely beyond her comprehension, yet she didn't even dislike him. She didn't know what she felt. Except overwhelmed and exhausted.

Two days later, Erik announced they had business with Cameron and told her to dress nicely for the occasion. It wasn't her choice destination, but the thought of sunlight was enough to make her dash to her closet. At least he trusted her enough to let her out, although he kept a very close eye on her throughout the journey.

When they arrived, Cameron smiled in a way that made her very uncomfortable. "Now that you are officially engaged, I need a small favor, Christine."

"What, Mr. Lourdes?" She now regretted telling Erik that she wanted to do more to help.

"After Erik leaves, I have a man, Sampson, scheduled to come in with a television camera. Lines will appear on that white screen over there." He pointed. "And you will read them while he records you. Smile, of course. It may take several times to get it right. Do you understand?"

She looked at Erik. He only said, "Do you have concerns, my dear?"

Christine hesitated. "I just…um…I don't know if I'll be good at reading lines."

"With that voice and face, you will be perfect," Cameron replied with a laugh. "Silly woman. Let's at least give it a try. For the Lord."

"All right," she murmured.

Erik soon left, and Sampson came in. He resembled a younger version of Cameron with his long, brown beard. To her discomfort, she missed Erik being in the room. The men were intimidating, and they stared at her as though she were insignificant. Sampson situated her in front of one of the paintings and adjusted the lighting. Once everything was set up and the camera was focused on her, Cameron nodded once and said, "Begin."

"Good morning," she shakily began, reading the lines and folding her hands in front of her modest dress. "I'm Christine Daae. And I'm here to t-talk to you about the…Community. To set some…some facts straight. To give you…h-hope."

"No, no," said Cameron, signaling for Sampson to stop. "Put your arms at your side. You're also stuttering. Be modest but confident. As you are when you sing. Start over."

"It would have helped to have seen the lines first," she muttered so that no one could hear her. With a sigh, Christine reread the lines. He didn't stop her, so she continued on. "To give you hope. You see, my dear friends, we operate under the principle that all will be provided to us if we obey the rules of God. Cameron Lourdes is extending his blessings and this message to everyone and…."

He interrupted her a couple more times to make corrections. It was nothing but an advertisement. She felt tired as she finally ended the message with a soft, "God bless you all."

"Perfect!" exclaimed Cameron, clapping his hands together so loudly that she jumped into the air. "Yes, this will do very nicely, won't it, Sampson?" The other man nodded once in agreement; he hadn't smiled throughout the ordeal. Cameron turned back to her. "You may go out and get some sunshine. You are kind of pale. Doesn't he ever let you outside? Haha. Well, he will return in thirty minutes or so, and you can stay in my yard until then."

She did as he said, blinking in the warm light. The grass was brightly green, and flowers were blooming all around her. Glancing around, she briefly wondered if this would be the time to run away. To where? They were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Cameron's guards. Before she could think about it any longer, the door suddenly opened behind her and Cameron stepped out, holding the hand of a cute little girl. "This is my granddaughter. Abigail or Abby. She wanted to meet you," he explained, releasing her hand.

"Hi there," Christine said as the girl walked toward her. She'd seen her several times at Community events. Very little was known about Cameron's family.

"Um, you sing pretty," Abby said with a smile. "And you're pretty."

Christine smiled back. "Well, thank you. You're very pretty, too."

"You will watch her, I think. Sampson and I have some business to work out." Without a word, Cameron turned around and left them there.

Although she was slightly irked that he had forced the job on her, the feeling was replaced with some warmth at being around a child again. "I helped plant these!" Abby exclaimed, proudly pointing to several roses.

"They're beautiful," murmured Christine.

"Oh, a butterfly!" Abby exclaimed, pointing at a monarch that was fluttering nearby. "Poppy says they're very good and to never, ever hurt them. They are gifts from God."

"That's right," Christine agreed. "We definitely shouldn't hurt butterflies." She smiled as she watched it closely and then frowned slightly. She couldn't explain it, but there was something…off about the creature. It seemed a little jerky in its movements. With her index finger, Christine curiously touched the insect and, instead of gracefully fluttering and floating away, it almost seemed to zoom upwards and out of her reach.

"Aw. You scared it away," said Abby, skipping around the lawn. "That's okay. Lots more are here."

After staring in bewilderment, Christine shrugged. Maybe I really am starting to lose my mind….

"My hair is all messed up," said Abby, stopping and touching her tousled braid. "Poppy says girls shouldn't be messy. I hope I don't get in trouble."

"I'll re-braid it for you," said Christine. "How about that?"

With a giant grin, the girl sat cross-legged in front of her. "I can't wait to tell everyone that Christine Day' braided my hair!"

Christine's heart fell a little. She was becoming a role model for these girls. Yet she was nothing but an actress. I really have become a lie. But it's all for a truly good cause, right? Right?

She finished braiding Abby's hair and then they both sat in the grass and enjoyed the sun on their faces. Abby told her about a beloved pet pony that she'd recently received. It wasn't really surprising that Cameron's granddaughter had privileges that the other little girls didn't. Eventually, after what felt like longer than thirty minutes, Cameron opened the door with a smile. "All done?" he asked. Both girls stood up, brushed themselves off, and headed for the entrance. Ushering Abby inside, he whispered to Christine, "Erik is outside the usual door, ready to take you home."

He was. She couldn't read his eyes. "Were you waiting for me long?" she asked.

"I merely watched you. You seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"It was nice to be outside," she admitted. "Abby is sweet."

"She is Cameron's granddaughter."

"I know. But she's not Cameron."

Erik paused. "You really do like them, don't you? Like people."

"Well, yes. I do. Good people. Why wouldn't I?"

He shrugged, and they walked in silence.

Her brain finally made a connection as she stared at Erik from the corner of her eye. He stayed away from people, not only because of his status as the Spirit, but because of his face. Had people been cruel to him because of it? And then….

If people hadn't been nice to him, why would he want to help them so much?

It would be a much too strange and awkward thing to ask at this point. "Maybe I could see Mrs. Valerius soon?" she softly inquired instead.

"I think that could be arranged."

"Thank you, Erik."

He was oddly quiet the rest of the day.

When she awoke and stepped out of her room the next morning, Christine softly gasped. Arranged upon the coffee table were a wide assortment of colorful yarns, threads, fabrics and other craft material. He'd given her several balls of yarn and some knitting needles weeks ago, but nothing like this. There were also several plants and flowers situated about the room—English ivies, peace lilies, and bamboo palms among others. They added a fresh scent to the stale underground home. Erik walked up beside her.

"This is amazing," she murmured, touching one of the plant leaves. "Thank you."

"I want you to be happy," he stated. "You will be my wife. But I do not want your hatred."

Her eyes instantly filled with tears, and she slumped down onto the couch. "I don't hate you, Erik. Please just give me time to process the last few months. You can't even imagine what it's like to have everything change so fast…."

"Oh, but I can, Christine," he murmured. "A split second can change the world."

She nodded and took a deep breath, quickly wiping the tears away. Picking up a black ball of yarn off the table, she turned it over in her hands and asked, "Would you like a scarf?"

He softly laughed. "Make yourself a very warm blanket. Something to keep you safe and happy during this dark, cold winter—when your dear husband will be very busy."

He left and played the piano for a while. Then he sat nearby and simply watched her work, unmistakable contentment in his eyes.

Was this peace a lie, too?

Or a half-truth?

Or maybe just a moment that didn't need to be anything at all.