The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 24

 

Firefly Forest by Brittany Michelle

Day 24 – The Last Temptation of Silas

Every detective has one case that quietly rearranges the furniture inside your soul. Sometimes you solve it. Sometimes you spend the rest of your life pretending you're investigating other things. By Thursday afternoon, Laurel Lane had stopped pretending. It knew exactly why I had come. The unsettling part was that I hadn't.

The endless sunset remained fixed above the neighborhood. No clocks worked. The Firefly Hours no longer came and went. They simply hovered perpetually. Walter rarely spoke now. Arthur watched the streets with the resigned vigilance of a man standing beside someone else's hospital bed. Calico kept writing.

"I don't know why." She looked at another filled notebook. "But I can't bear the thought of forgetting this."

Evelyn found me near the old maple tree.

"You've been avoiding something. Someone," she said.

I looked around. "I don't know anyone else here."

"You will." She walked toward the woods, smiling like she knew all the secrets of The Firefly Hours. Following her felt Pavlovian, as if I knew this was why I was here. The trees parted almost politely. Making room.

The path ended where no path should have existed. A small lakeshore beside still water. Flat stones scattered along the bank. An old wooden dock stretched into the shallows. The place struck me with the peculiar certainty of déjà vu. I had spent years trying not to remember it.

"I've never told anyone about this place," I told Evelyn.

Evelyn sat on the end of the dock and said, "You've barely told yourself."

The air smelled of freshwater and pine needles. The setting was a quintessential warm summer evening. I knew that smell. A boy laughed somewhere beyond the trees. Then another. Then—a familiar voice.

"So," It came from behind me. "you finally made it."

Every muscle in my body locked. I didn't turn around. I couldn't. Because I knew that voice. I had spent years convincing myself I'd forgotten it. The footsteps stopped beside me.

"I was wondering how long it'd take," the voice said.

I slowly looked. He couldn't have been more than fifty. Sunburned. Rolled-up sleeves. A tackle box hanging from one hand. The smile came first. Then the eyes. My father's. Exactly as I'd remembered them. Except they seemed better, sharper. Unfaded by time. He looked at me for a long moment. Then laughed softly.

"You got old,” he said with a gentle tease.

I tried to answer. Nothing came. He glanced toward the lake.

"I suppose I did too,” he added.

My father walked onto the dock. He set down the tackle box and picked up a flat stone he found next to it. He tossed toward the water. The stone skipped. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Just as it always had. He looked back at me.

"Give it a try."

I didn't move.

"I watched you die," I said, barely audible. The words escaped before I could stop them. He nodded.

"I know."

"I couldn't do anything."

"I know that, too."

"I should've, though." Emotion choked me. “I could’ve—"

"No." He interrupted gently. "You were twelve."

Silence settled over the lake. The sort of silence fathers and sons earn after enough fishing trips.

"You've been carrying that for a long time," he finally said. "You don't have to."

"I know." Neither of us believed me.

"Funny thing about guilt." He skipped another stone across the water. "It’s never as powerful as we give it credit for.”

"I've replayed that day thousands of times." I stared at the water. "I always find one thing I should've done differently."

He smiled sadly. "Memory's good at that."

The breeze carried the scent of coffee. Warm. Fresh. Comforting. It vanished almost immediately but it was enough to remind me of another impossible place. Another booth. Another conversation. Another life. Something tugged gently at the edge of my memory, inviting me. My father stood.

"You could stay." His words were simple. Matter-of-fact. He simply presented an option."We've got all the Thursdays in the world." He looked toward the water. "You've missed enough of them."

I imagined it. Fishing. Talking. Asking every question I'd never had the chance to ask. Growing older beside someone who had never been allowed to. No more unfinished conversations. No more wondering. No more almosts. So much unfinished business that could be tended to. He turned toward me. His expression changed to concern. He studied my face.

"Son." His voice carried all the warmth I'd been missing for decades. "How long have you been trying to solve me?"

I closed my eyes to fight the tears that had been trying escape for years. Because I finally understood. I hadn't become a metaphysical detective to solve impossible mysteries. I'd become one hoping, somewhere along the way I'd accidentally solve my own. When I opened my eyes again, the dock remained. The lake remained. My father remained. He smiled and I could feel his unspoken love for me. Then, before I could speak—before I could choose—he looked directly into my eyes.

"Hello, Silas,” he said.

*****

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