Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 51 - MAKING AMENDS

"Dinner's almost ready," she said, her voice even. Casual. But her hands trembled just a little on the spoon.

"Okay," I replied softly, walking over and grabbing a bowl like it was the most natural thing in the world.

We didn't talk much. But I set the table. She placed the food. And we ate, three people carrying old wounds, learning to sit in the same silence without falling apart. Later, after washing the dishes and lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I finally opened my notes app. Not to text her. Not yet. Just to write.

Title: For the Girl Who Burned Bright

You weren't fire until I broke you.
Now you're ash and cinder and fury.
And I still reach for your warmth,
Even as it scorches me.

I didn't know if I'd ever send it. Maybe it was for me. Maybe it was a start.

The next morning, I woke up early.

Like, really early. Not because I had somewhere to be, but because I didn't want to sleep through another chance at becoming better.

I shaved. Shaved. Like actually looked in the mirror and gave a damn. Wore a clean shirt. Ate breakfast. Told my mom "thank you."

And then I drove. Not to Betty's house.
But to Mr. Oxford's classroom.

He wasn't expecting me. Hell, I wasn't expecting myself. But there I was, standing outside Room 109 like I belonged to a past I was finally ready to catch up to.

He looked up from his desk, surprised. "James Gray. Didn't expect to see you this side of a deadline."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I want to fix my grade," I said. "Not because of basketball. Or colleges. I just... I need to prove something to myself."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"There's a seat by the window," he said. "Start there."

I sat down. The desk was scratched, the sun slanted in just right, and the air smelled like chalk and second chances. I pulled out a pen. Took a breath. And began.

That afternoon I decided to visit Betty's dad. I have a lot of explaining to do, I broke his daughter's heart, I know how painful must it be for a father to see his child be broken by a dumb boy like me.

The bell above the shop door jingled as I stepped in, the air thick with motor oil, metal, and something older, like rusted history and tired lungs. The kind of place that didn't ask for words unless they meant something. Mr. Finn stood under the hood of a battered pickup, his hands slick with grease, sweat bleeding through the back of his shirt. He didn't look up right away, just kept working, the clang of a wrench echoing sharp in the tight space. I cleared my throat.

He didn't flinch.

"Mister... Mikhail," I started, voice rough like I hadn't used it in days. "Do you have a minute?"

That's when he looked up. His eyes were the same as Betty's, same shape, same storm tucked in the corners, but colder now. Not cruel. Just... tired of excuses. And honestly? I didn't blame him. He set the wrench down slowly, wiped his hands on a rag, and leaned against the truck like a man who'd seen too many kids like me come through that door.

"If you came here to explain yourself," he said, voice low, "don't."

I shook my head. "I didn't."

A pause stretched, long and taut. Then, softer: "I came to say I'm sorry."

He looked at me for a beat, then walked past me toward the back counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee that had probably been sitting there since sunrise. I followed, but not too close. This wasn't mine to rush.