The 18th Shade Of Summer (Fractured Script Series #1)

CHAPTER 20

Grandpa and I talked for a long while, slipping into conversation the way old friends might. I told him stories I still remembered clearly.

About the time I won a three-subject quiz bee in sixth grade, how I got into a shouting match with a class bully and didn’t back down, the simple happy days with Mom and Dad before everything got complicated.

I told him a bit about college too—about living alone, budgeting meals, doing laundry at odd hours, and pretending I knew what I was doing even when I didn’t.

I left out the parts that would worry him. The nights I cried in the bathroom so no one would hear. The weight that came with not belonging anywhere completely. He didn’t need to hear that.

He listened with his full attention, nodding, sometimes smiling. Sometimes laughing gently. It felt good. Like I was being remembered by someone who chose to.

Later, he led me to the room I used to sleep in when I was a kid. The walls were soft pink, and shelves held a few plush toys and stickers I vaguely recognized.

I stood in the middle of it, taking it in slowly. I never remembered being this into pink, but maybe at some point I was. Maybe it was the kind of joy you forget after growing up, like so many other small things.

What mattered more was that it was still here. And it was clean. Kept that way all these years just in case I came back.

Before leaving me alone for the night, Grandpa handed me a photo album.

“Your dad left this here,” he said, almost offhandedly. “You might want to look through it.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the first page.

The earliest photos were of me as a newborn—red-faced, bundled tight, eyes barely open. One photo showed Mom holding me in her arms at my first birthday, a cake in front of us and balloons floating in the background.

Her smile in that picture looked unfiltered. Like she was proud. Like she believed I was something special. I didn’t question whether it was real. I know it was real.

I flipped slowly through more pages. Candid photos at a park, some blurry, my first day at school, wearing a uniform too big for me, face scrunched in a cry. Another of me on a small bike, mouth open wide in either fear or joy—I couldn’t tell which. There were pictures of scraped knees, muddy hands, half-eaten snacks.

And then the last photo.

No people. Just a sunset. Orange spilling into pink across the sky, the image taken from what looked like a high place—maybe a hill, or a rooftop. I didn’t recognize where it was, but it felt peaceful. Like someone took it not to show off, but to remember a feeling.

I ran my hand lightly over the page.

I wondered what childhood stories my father had. What kind of photos would’ve filled his album—if someone had made one for him.

Did he have a favorite toy? A hiding spot he always ran to when he got scolded? Did he ever climb trees, skin his knees, or get into trouble for staying out too late with friends?

There was so much I didn’t know, and maybe never would. But somehow, holding this album felt like the closest I’d ever get to asking him directly.

The next morning, I woke up a little earlier than usual. When I stepped out, Grandpa was already in the kitchen, placing plates on the small table. The smell of eggs and rice filled the air, along with something earthy and unfamiliar.

I realized he’d made green coffee—something I’d only ever seen on local Facebook groups or in provincial markets.

He looked up and smiled when he saw me.