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You can see the motes of dust floating in the sunlight. They’re always there, slowly drifting and floating, settling on every surface of the house. Just more to add to the endless list of things that always have to be cleaned. It’s exhausting.
When was the last time you wiped the dust off the picture frames by the window? It seems like you did it just yesterday, but as you swipe a finger over your son’s graduation picture, a thin layer of fuzz gathers on your wrinkled fingertip.
It’s been years since you’ve seen him. You haven’t spoken ever since he said he was quitting school to study art. Despite everything, all the arguments over the phone, the stolid texts when he stops picking up the phone, you can’t bring yourself to put away his pictures. Even if you can’t bear to look at them anymore, it just feels wrong to move them.
Lately, you’ve been taking sleeping pills, earlier and earlier in the evenings. The days just cannot pass quickly enough anymore. You look at the half-empty glass of water on the counter next to the pills.
Maybe you’ll take a few extra tonight.
A knock on the door interrupts your daze, and the bottle of pills clatter apathetically as you put them down. You turn around to search for the source of the sound, momentarily confused. You aren’t expecting guests, are you? No that can’t be, you haven’t expected anyone in years.
The reflex is so strange, walking to the door to unlock it and crack it open.
“Can I help—“
It’s … your son. No, not quite. You recognize him, you always will, but he’s older, older than he should be. He’s got a beard too? Must be the artists’ style.
“Hey dad,” he says timidly. “Can I come in? I brought Chinese takeout. From your favorite place, remember?”
Of course you do, but you’re surprised he does.
“S-son? You look—“
“Old? Yeah I know, let’s talk about it over dinner. Are you hungry?”
You haven’t eaten today, so of course you are. Recently, even cooking has started to feel tiring. What once was a joy now feels just like another daily routine just to get by. After all, you don’t have anyone to cook for anymore, and cooking for one is just sad. Recipes in that proportion keep calling for half an onion, and just what are you going to do with the other half? Eating sleep has become more and more tempting every day.
Maybe it’s because you’re getting old, and your taste buds just don’t work as well anymore. The vivacity of life and flavor that you used to be able to tease apart with your tongue, all their names and nuances have long since left your memory.
The aroma from the bag of takeout though, just one whiff and you remember laughing with everyone around the table when your son was first learning to use chopsticks, fumbling awkwardly with them and dropping things everywhere. Heaven bless that Chinese hole-in-the-wall and the family running it. They’ve been at it for the last who knows how long, and the food is still as authentic as ever.
You hesitantly open the door wider, and your son smiles, and you can’t help but wonder why a flicker of relief seems to cross his forehead.
“I came a long way for this, you know.”
He still has that tell, rubbing the back of his neck when he’s telling a half-truth. It’s been like that his entire childhood, and it’s stayed with him growing up. You’ve never told him about it because of how endearing it looked when he was young, how useful it was when he was a teenager, and then you never got the chance to.
He opens the containers of food, still steaming, and unfolds the flaps on the paper cartons of rice. Pepper steak and mapo tofu, just the way you like it.
God, you haven’t felt this hungry in a long time, and it’s kind of nice to go through the routine of setting the table, even if it’s just for takeout.
“Son? What’s going on? Why are you back? What happened to art school?”
“Ah, I’m not really, you see. I’m from the future.”
“W-what? I’m calling my son! Who are you and why are you pretending to be my son?” You reach for your phone, but your “son” holds out his hands placatingly.
“Wait. I can explain.” He takes a breath, and his voice softens. His forehead creases in that oh-so-recognizable way and even before he explains, your doubt has slightly abated, even if you can’t believe it yourself. “In a few days, your son will enroll in engineering school.”
“Wait what?”
“Yeah dad,” he shrugs sheepishly. “I went back to engineering school and got my PhD, just like you always wanted.”
“No, that’s never what I wanted. I just wanted you to be happy. You always wanted to build rockets and big machines. You were always so happy when we went to watch the big excavators and cranes at the mall.”
“I know, dad. I remember how you used to let me sit on your shoulders so I could wave to the operators. But things changed, I changed. I found something else I loved too.”
Even before he’s said this, you know it’s him. But it solidifies your certainty as much as your incredulity. “But why go back? You were so adamant about studying art … and you’re old? You’re from the future?”
“Something … happened.” He rubs the back of his neck and you’re not sure what to think. “I went back to school, got my degree in quantum physics, and invented a time machine.”
“You built a time machine? What? How? Why come back here? Now?”
“Ah it’s a lot to explain dad, the rules of time travel are actually really complicated and nothing like those TV shows we used to watch. I got a bunch of awards for it, you would’ve liked that.” His voice slightly cracks. “I just wanted to come back and see you. By the time … by the time I built it, you were already gone.”
“Oh.” You look down at the piece of beef in your chopsticks, cold from talking for so long. It’s all so hard to believe, you’re not sure you fully understand either, but the company is so nice. It’s been so long since you’ve had dinner with someone. “How long can you stay?”
He looks down at his watch, which starts clicking and turning to reveal all the intricate machinery inside.
“Not sure, I have enough energy to materialize myself at the current point in the space time continuum, but holding the fabric in place like this, especially in an area of low entropy might—“ He looks up at you, and you catch yourself grinning at how passionate he is. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. I don’t actually know.”
“Well, stay as long as you want. Eat. Eat. You must be hungry.”
It’s just like old times, before, well, before. Your son’s right cheek still dimples in the same way when he laughs, even though it's lined with age. Before you know it, the sun has set and you have to get up creakily to turn on the lights.
“Here, let me.” He stands up quickly before you can get out of the chair, hopping over to the light switch to slap it on.
“So, how … how did I pass? Was it peaceful? Wait, are you allowed to tell me? Can you change things in the past?”
“Yeah, but as long as I don’t do anything too drastic I should be fine.” He raises his hand to show you the watch, the inner workings still spinning hypnotically. The mood sombers, and you can see the hesitation in his eyes. “My watch will warn me if anything. You passed in your sleep, dad. It … it was peaceful.”
“Ah. I guess that’s alright then. Wouldn’t have it any other way. Don’t want to keep Mom waiting, hmm?”
“You still miss her? Even after all this time?”
“More than you could ever know.”
“Do … do you talk to Mr. Yong anymore?” You shake your head, and your son’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “But why? You were best friends for over thirty years? Did something happen?”
Truthfully, you don’t even know why you’ve stopped talking. “I’m sure he’s too busy now. He’s got his own family too. No time.”
“You make time for your friends, dad.”
You raise an eyebrow, a little surprised. “Where did you learn that one from, art school?”
You both laugh, and then his expression softens. “You should talk to him again.”
You nod and swallow a bite of tofu with some more rice. The flavor is nostalgic, creamy, and wonderful. You can’t remember the last time anything has tasted so good. So vivid. So alive.
Maybe it’s the spice actually. Your throat’s a little dry now. Right, spicy food does that to you. You turn around and see the glass of water you left on the counter next to the bottle of sleeping pills. When you get up, you notice your son looking at the glass too, his gaze sliding over to the bottle.
“You want some water? Juice? Coffee?”
“It’s almost ten, dad. Have you been having trouble sleeping?” His voice is tight and soft. “Why are you taking sleeping pills?”
“I’m getting old. It’s hard to sleep when everything aches, so I just take a few. Knocks me right out.”
“Don’t take too many, okay? Are you still hungry?”
You shake your head. That simple question, it warms you so much. You walk over to the glass, still half-full of water, and take a slow sip. It is crisp and cool, tickling a track down your throat past your spice-rubbed taste buds.
Maybe you’ll stay up a little more today, give Mr. Yong a call. It would be good to catch up. Oh right! The latest season of that show you used to love is back after a three year hiatus. Mmm, that’s excellent binge material. Maybe you’ll watch it together, just like old times. Maybe you should try calling your son again, in the present. There’s plenty of time for everything you want to do before you’re ready to go to bed.
Quietly, you slide the sleeping pills back into a drawer. They just don’t seem so appealing anymore.
As soon as that thought crosses your mind, a sudden beeping noise draws your attention behind you and your turn to look at your son. He glances down at his watch and a small smile crosses his lips.
“Ah, looks like my time’s up. Time travel rules, y’know dad? It was good talking to you, I … gotta go. I’m really happy for you.”
"Wait, I still have so many things I need to tell you!" You blurt out as he gives you a wave and a smile. His eyes are smiling too, shining with melancholic pride. "No matter what, I lo—"
With an abrupt poof, he winks out of existence, and the chopsticks he was holding clatter to the floor.
“—ve you … son.”