Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 24

I sit up, brush my hair out of my face. The air smells like home. And somewhere, even if I can’t see him yet, I know James is out there---

Walking through his own field. Toward me.

I padded downstairs slowly, almost afraid to disturb the quiet comfort that had settled over the house. My hair was done, not curled or pinned or overly perfect, just brushed and soft and me. I wore my favorite pink cardigan, the one with sleeves long enough to hide the places I was trying to make peace with but mostly because it felt like a hug.

"Dad?" I called softly, my voice still shy in the morning light.

He was in the kitchen, hunched slightly over the kettle, eyes still a little puffy from sleep. He turned when he heard me. And when he saw me, he froze.

"Good morning," I said with a small smile, moving toward him.

He blinked like he was making sure I was real. “You look… different,” he said after a beat. Then, gentler, “Good different.”

I leaned against the counter beside him. “I feel different, Dad.”

The kettle whistled softly in the background, but neither of us moved. He gave me a look--- one of those fatherly ones, where he wasn’t sure how deep to go. “Did something happen last night?” he asked, then quickly added, “With James?”

“Maybe…” I said, drawing the word out with a teasing tone, letting the syllable linger just long enough to confirm without saying anything at all.

Dad gave a breathy chuckle, then raised an eyebrow. “Well, I won’t meddle, Betts. But---” his tone shifted into that half-serious, half-dad-trying-to-be-funny way, “remember your limitations, okay? I don’t want to be a grandfather just yet.”

“Daaaad!” I groaned, laughing in spite of myself. I swatted his arm playfully, and he raised both hands like he was innocent. “Oh my God. Ew.”

He laughed too, but then something softened in his face. A quiet exhale, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks and was finally letting it out. I noticed it. That sigh. That happy one. It struck me then, in a way I hadn't expected. How often we describe things as happy when we really mean something deeper. Like seen. Or safe. Or understood. Maybe that’s what happiness really is. Not fireworks or parties or being perfect.
But just… waking up in the morning, being told you look different in a good way and knowing someone means it. Being able to joke and laugh with your dad in the kitchen. Being able to say, “I feel different” and mean it. And maybe, when someone sees you---really sees you and still stays… Maybe that’s what makes the flowers bloom in your chest again.

I sipped the tea he poured for me, and for the first time in a while, it tasted like more than just leaves and hot water. It tasted like starting over. Like something real might be coming next.

And for once, I wasn’t scared of it.

The sky outside was overcast, but not gloomy--- just wrapped in soft, silvery clouds that felt like a clean slate. I grabbed my bag, and Dad grabbed his keys. We moved in sync, like two people who’d finally found a rhythm again, even if it was quiet. Once we were in the car, he turned the radio on low, just enough for background hum. The usual route to school stretched out in front of us---familiar turns, the little curve by the bakery, the cracked pavement by the park. But today it all felt… gentler. Less heavy.

“Hey, Dad?” I said after a moment, turning toward him with a mischievous smirk.

He gave a cautious glance my way. “What?”

“So, how’s Claire?” I asked sweetly.

He coughed. “C-Claire?”

“Yeah. Claire. Our nice widow neighbor who just happens to keep dropping by with pandesal and kaldereta and that weird banana jam you hate but still ate anyway.”