[North Precinct. . .]
The sirens stopped minutes ago.
Charles ascended the creaking basement steps, Emory held securely in his arms, and headed for the kitchen. He checked the wall clock. "12:32 PM. . . The alarm woke me up at 11:58. So, about half an hour." Relief flooded his mind and heart.
Houtis was safe.
. . . .
"Good morning, Emory."
Charles slowly unraveled the blue blanket covering Emory as the baby reflexively stretched his arms. He carried the child into the kitchen and placed him on the couch beside a dropped newspaper. Emory's head turned toward the paper, his eyes widening.
It was a picture of the tortured man in George's café, dead on the floor. Emory intensely glared at the photo of the dismembered man.
The newspaper was quickly taken away. "Uh-uh. This is not something babies should look at," Charles muttered. He placed it on the table and handed Emory a pacifier.
Suddenly, deep wrinkles started forming around Emory's face, and for the first time in his four days of living, the child cried.
"E-Emory. . ."
It was the first time he had heard the baby cry.
Charles's pupils broadened; he was wholly unprepared. He grasped Emory with trembling hands. "N–Now, now. Don't cry, little Emory. . ."
He began to pat Emory's small back softly, but the cries didn't cease. Oh darn, what do I do? For the next thirty minutes, everything was tried: soothing, toys, even burping. Charles pressed his lips together, trying to rack his mind. Isabelle would know, she was the one who always studied this, not me! I'm so unprepared. So useless!
The pair were momentarily paused only when a knock sounded at the door.
Charles's eyes lit up when Emory stopped crying. Unfortunately, the silence lasted only a couple of seconds before Emory's screaming reignited fiercely.
Charles approached the white door, the color in his eyes slowly fading. Outside stood a seven-year-old child. "Grant," Charles exclaimed.
Grant Opal, Charles's neighbor's only son, had soft ginger hair that covered his forehead and grass-green eyes. Pressed against his cheek was the imprint of a frozen fish, a delicacy in Trila.
"How can I help you?" Charles asked, bending down slightly.
Emory's shrieks made Grant grimace. "My momma says your baby's too loud." He took the fish out of his mouth—saliva dripping on the concrete—and pointed it toward Emory.
"Oh. . . I'm really sorry about that, Grant, I am." When Grant didn't respond, Charles continued, "I–I'll try to get him to calm down soon. Is that the only reason you came here?"
Holding the frozen fish near his freckled face, Grant nodded. "Yeah." He wore a light blue T-shirt and matching shorts. Dark brown sandals were strapped to his feet, leaving his chubby toes exposed.
As Grant shifted his gaze to Emory once more, the latter reciprocated. Emory focused on the fish.
The crying stopped.
"Emory?"
Emory's concern was pinpointed directly on the frozen fish. Realizing his son had finally stopped crying, a beaming smile plastered itself on Charles's face. "Is this a miracle?"
Grant noticed Emory's eyes were nailed to the fish in his hand and kindly offered it to the newborn. "Here." He handed the fish to Charles. "Your baby likes it."
Grant felt no need to elaborate.
After thanking the boy for his generosity, Charles waved him off. "Thanks again for the fish. I've been meaning to buy some, but the fish markets are all closed."
Grant looked back and replied, "Yeah, my Papa says a lot of people are dying."
Pausing at the young boy's dark remark, Charles's lips twitched. Why are they talking to such a young child about these horrors?! He questioned the Opals' parenting methods.
"Be careful on your way back. Go home straightaway."
Grant nodded. "Yeah." He hopped each step, landing on the ground with a thud before scurrying home.
What a nice kid. . .
Charles smiled before looking over at Emory, who was laser-focused on the frozen fish. "Who knew a fish would get a crying baby to stop?"
Chuckling to himself, he closed the door and went back inside.
. . . .
Amidst the eerie silence of the Vaughan household, a letter slid just below the door slot. It had been almost two weeks since Emory's miraculous birth and Isabelle's tragic death.
Leaning in to pick up the letter, Charles's crimson eyes narrowed on the words. An indescribable atmosphere loomed over the two-story house.
Thump! Thump!
He didn't want to keep reading; the pain was too much. "No–" Stumbling back, he threw the paper away. "Not today. . ."
As it slowly fell through the air like a feather, the envelope lightly hit the floor. The contents were finally revealed:
"Isabelle Vaughan's body is ready. Please proceed to East Cemetery."
This wouldn't just be a time to say goodbye; it would be the birth of something tragic!