The house was silent when Nathan opened the door.
He leaned the bike against the garage wall, entered from the back. The air conditioner hummed quietly, and from the kitchen came a vague smell of cold coffee.
You're home, said The Noise. Good. Now you can—
The sound of footsteps from upstairs. Fast, nervous. Then his mother's voice:
"Nathan? Is that you?"
"Yeah."
Silence. Then more footsteps—this time on the stairs.
Laura appeared at the bottom of the stairs and Nathan stopped.
He'd never seen her like this. Or rather—he hadn't seen her like this in years.
She wore a dress Nathan didn't recognize—dark blue, simple but elegant, that came just below her knee. Her hair was down, wavy, not in the usual practical ponytail. And there was something else—a touch of mascara, a hint of lipstick, earrings that sparkled in the afternoon light.
She'd dressed up for someone.
A date, Nathan realized. The one she didn't tell me about this morning.
Laura stopped on the last step, one hand on the railing. She seemed... nervous. Like a teenager before her first school dance.
"You're... you're back early," she said. "I thought you'd be out longer."
"The check-out didn't take as long as expected."
Look at her, said The Noise. She feels guilty about something. Probably about the date. Get ready.
Nathan set his backpack on the kitchen table. Wexler's book was still inside the backpack and he hadn't opened it yet.
"Are you... are you okay?" Laura came down the last step, approaching. "How did the meeting with Mrs. Morales go?"
"Good. The usual." He shrugged. "We talked about college, MIT, about... stuff like that. And then we said goodbye."
"She said that, if I need, I can contact her anytime."
For a moment, Nathan remembered the sheet that Morales had given him. He still had it in his back pocket. For a moment, he ran his hand over the pocket, feeling the paper under his fingers. But then he stopped.
Nathan turned to look at her. "Are you... going out?" He sketched a smile.
Laura froze. For an instant, something passed over her face—fear? Guilt? Both?
"Yes, I..." She ran a hand through her hair—a nervous gesture Nathan knew well. "I wanted to talk to you about it this morning, but I didn't... I didn't find the right moment."
Here it comes, said The Noise. She's going to tell you about him.
"Talk to me about what?"
Laura took a deep breath. Then she sat in one of the kitchen chairs, hands clasped in her lap. She pointed to the chair across from her.
"Can you sit for a moment?" she asked, her eyes fixed on her hands.
Nathan sat down. The backpack was on the table, the zipper half open, Wexler's book sticking out.
"Nathan, I..." Laura searched for words. "For a few months I've been... seeing someone." She couldn't look him in the eyes.
Silence.
React, said The Noise. But not too much. Moderate surprise. Nothing more.
"You're going out..." said Nathan slowly. "With someone?"
"His name is David." Laura looked at him, searching for a reaction. "David Chen. He's... he teaches history at Millbrook High School. We met at a teachers' conference a few months ago, and we started talking, exchanging messages, and..."
She stopped. Her hands gripped tighter.
"Nathan, I want you to know it's not... it's nothing serious. Or rather, I don't know yet if it's serious. We're just... seeing how it goes. We're taking our time. And I didn't want to tell you before because I didn't know if it would last, and I didn't want you to think..."
That she's replacing Dad, Nathan completed in his head.
Don't say it, The Noise warned. Let her finish.
"...I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable," Laura concluded, her voice lower. "I know it's strange. I know maybe it's too soon. It's only been two years, and your father..."
Her voice cracked.
Nathan felt something move in his chest. Something ancient, from before The Noise—the instinct to stand up, to hug her, to kiss her, to tell her everything was okay.
Do it, said The Noise. Reassure her. That's what she wants. That's what she needs.
But for an instant—just an instant—Nathan hesitated.
Maya's words came back to him. You don't get to decide who bears your weight. What if it was true the other way around too? What if Laura was doing the same thing—protecting him from her happiness, feeling guilty for wanting to move on?
This isn't the time, said The Noise, more insistent. Look at her. She's suffering. Do you really want to add your doubts to hers?
No. He didn't.
Nathan stood up, walked around the table, knelt next to his mother's chair.
"Mom." He told her gently, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Laura looked up. Her eyes were wet.
"Hey." Nathan took her hands. They were cold, trembling slightly. "It's okay. I'm happy you're trying to move on."
"Really?" Laura's voice was a whisper. "You're not... you're not angry? You don't think it's... too soon?"
Yes, Nathan thought. No. I don't know. I don't know what I think.
"Mom, Dad died two years ago." The words came out calm, gentle, measured. "It's not too soon. And even if it were... you deserve to be happy... Dad would have wanted you to be happy."
Laura looked at him—that look that searched for cracks, always—and for a moment Nathan thought she would see through everything. That she would understand that he was acting too, that he was protecting himself from something he couldn't name.
But then Laura smiled. A trembling smile, but genuine.
"When did you become so wise?"
I'm not wise. I never became wise., Nathan thought. I'm just good at saying the right things.
"I had good teachers."
Laura laughed—a wet sound, halfway between crying and relief. Then she hugged him, tight, and Nathan smelled her perfume—the new one, the one she must have bought for David. Nathan returned the embrace, holding her in turn.
"I love you," Laura murmured against his shoulder. "You know that, right?"
"I know, Mom. I love you too." He whispered to her.
Good, said The Noise. Perfect. You made her happy. You're protecting her. Now you can let her go.
Laura pulled away, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Oh God, the mascara. I need to fix..." She stood up, looked at herself in the hallway mirror. "I'm a mess."
"That's not true... You look beautiful."
Laura turned, surprised. Then she smiled again—and this time the smile reached her eyes.
"David's picking me up at seven," she said, fixing her hair. "I don't know what time I'll be back. There's lasagna in the fridge if you're hungry, or you can order something."
"I'll be fine, Mom. I'm eighteen, I'm not a kid anymore."
"I know." Laura approached, placed a hand on his cheek. Her touch was warm, familiar. "I know you'll be fine. You're always fine."
Yes, Nathan thought as his mother went upstairs to fix her makeup. I'm always fine.
The Noise said nothing.
***
Seven o'clock came too quickly.
Nathan was sitting on the living room couch. He'd taken Wexler's book from his backpack but hadn't been able to open it, flip through it, read it. He held it closed on his knees, the smooth cover gleaming in the late afternoon light. But his eyes were fixed on nothing, when he heard the sound of a car stopping in front of the house.
Laura came down the stairs almost running—she'd freshened up and applied another coat of mascara. She looked younger than Nathan remembered her. She looked... alive.
"How do I look?" she asked, stopping in front of him.
"Perfect." Nathan smiled at her.
Laura smiled. Then she bent down, kissed his forehead.
"Don't stay up too late," said Nathan, sketching a laugh, and she laughed.
"Look who's talking!" Laura joked, pretending to be offended. "Now you've become the strict parent!" She laughed again, a light, happy laugh. "Okay, okay. I won't keep him waiting. See you later, okay?"
Nathan nodded.
The door opened, closed. The sound of the car starting, driving away. Then silence.
Nathan sat on the couch, Wexler's book in his hands.
Are you okay?, asked The Noise.
Nathan didn't respond.
Nathan.
"I'm fine."
Liar.
Nathan closed his eyes. The silence of the empty house pressed from all directions—the same silence from two years ago, the evening after the funeral.
Don't think about it. Don't remember., said The Noise. Don't—
But it was too late. The memory was already there, sharp and cutting as glass.
***
The evening after the funeral.
The house was full of the loudest silence Nathan had ever heard. Every breath seemed like an intrusion, every movement a sacrilege.
Nathan was sitting at the kitchen table. In front of him, a plate of pasta his mother had prepared—mechanically, without speaking, as if her hands knew what to do even if the rest of her was elsewhere.
He wasn't hungry. He couldn't even imagine eating. Food seemed like an offense—how could the world continue with such normal, such mundane gestures, when his father was dead?
Laura was standing next to the stove, shoulders hunched, eyes red. She looked at him with an expression Nathan had never seen before—desperation mixed with hope, as if silently begging that at least he would eat, that at least he was still reachable.
"Nathan, please..." Laura's voice cracked. "You need to eat something."
Nathan shook his head. "I can't... I'm not hungry."
And then Laura broke.
She leaned against the counter, hands covering her face, and started crying. Not the silent, composed crying of the funeral—the one she'd held together in front of relatives, friends, colleagues offering condolences. This was different. Deep, desperate sobs, the kind of crying that comes from the center of your chest and you can't control.
Nathan watched her, paralyzed.
His mother—who had organized everything with mechanical efficiency, who had chosen the flowers and readings and music, who had thanked everyone for coming with a smile that never wavered—was crumbling before his eyes.
And in that moment, Nathan felt something.
A voice. Clear, rational, undeniable.
You can't do this.
Nathan stiffened. The voice didn't come from outside—it came from inside. From a precise point behind his eyes, as if a part of him had detached and started thinking separately.
You can't add more weight. You can't add more pain. Look what you're doing to her.
Nathan looked at his mother. The trembling shoulders. The hands covering her face. The sobs that wouldn't stop.
She just lost her husband. And you're making her suffer even more with your refusal to eat, with your empty face, with your silence.
That's not true, Nathan thought. I'm not—
Yes you are. Look at her. She's crying because you won't eat. She's crying because she sees you're collapsing and doesn't know how to help you. You're adding your pain to hers.
Nathan felt something tighten in his chest.
What should I do?, he asked the voice.
Eat. Smile. Tell her everything will be okay. That's the only thing you can do for her now.
But everything won't be okay. Nothing's okay. Shit! How do I move forward!?
It doesn't matter if it's true. What matters is that she believes it. If you collapse, she collapses. If you hold on, she holds on. It's simple. It's an equation. It's about protecting those you love.
Nathan looked at the plate of pasta. Looked at his mother crying. Looked at his own hands, motionless on the table.
And he picked up the fork.
His hands trembled slightly. The first bite tasted like cardboard. But he chewed, swallowed, and took another bite.
"Mom." His voice sounded strangely steady. Almost cheerful. "Everything will be okay. I just... I just need a moment. But I'm eating now, okay? Thanks for making dinner."
Laura looked up. Tears still streaked her cheeks, but something changed in her expression. Relief. Gratitude. Hope.
"Good boy." Her voice still trembled. "Good."
Nathan took another bite of pasta and looking her in the eyes said, with all the strength he could muster to resist the pain that was devouring him: "We'll make it, Mom. Together. We'll make it."
Nathan continued eating. He smiled when he should smile. He nodded when he should nod. And inside himself, he felt something crystallize—a pattern, a rule, a way of being.
The voice was right. He couldn't collapse. He couldn't add his pain to his mother's. He had to be strong, intact. He had to "function" like an automaton.
Good, said the voice. See? It works. She's better. You're protecting her.
That night, Nathan went to bed without crying. He woke up the next day and put on the mask. And the day after that. And the one after.
And the voice—the one Nathan called The Noise—never left.
***
Nathan opened his eyes.
The house was dark now. The sun had set while he was lost in memory, and shadows had stretched into every corner.
Wexler's book was still on his lap. He looked at it—the stars, the galaxies, the title in silver letters.
Echoes from the Void.
Nathan, said The Noise, and its voice was strangely gentle. Are you okay?
Nathan didn't respond.
It was a long time ago, The Noise continued. You did the right thing. You protected her. You're still protecting her.
"I know."
Then why are you sad?
Nathan thought about it. Why was he sad? He'd done what he had to do. He'd held his family together. He'd functioned—for two years, every day, without ever giving in.
But Maya was right. Mrs. Morales was right too. And maybe—maybe—even he knew they were right.
You don't get to decide who bears your weight.
"Because I'm tired," Nathan said to the darkness. A tear he couldn't hold back slid down his cheek. "I'm so tired..."
The Noise didn't respond.
Nathan got up from the couch, went to the window. Outside, the sky was filling with stars. The North Star was there, somewhere—fixed, motionless, while everything else spun.
Find the North Star, his father had said. There's always a fixed point.
But Nathan couldn't find it. Not from here, not through the window glass and the streetlights.
He looked at the clock. Quarter to eight.
Wexler's presentation had started forty-five minutes ago.
You're not going, said The Noise. It wasn't a question.
Nathan didn't respond. He looked at Wexler's book, still on the couch. Then he looked outside, toward the darkening sky.
Nathan.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know yet." And in saying it, he put the book back in the backpack on the table, closing the zipper decisively.
The Noise fell silent.
And Nathan stood there, at the window, watching the stars appear one by one in the Pine Hollow sky.
The Fixed Point, Nathan thought.
He thought about his father's telescope and decided to watch the sky in the backyard that night. He closed the window, put on a hoodie, and went out into the cool evening air.