The Remedy (it was always you)

Moving Forward

The page remained blank.

The pale morning light filtered through the poorly adjusted blinds, casting uneven lines across the desk. Mike had been staring at it for more than twenty minutes, his fingers motionless above the typewriter. The familiar clatter that usually managed to soothe him refused to come. Instead, there was only the ticking of the clock in the hallway and, downstairs, the lingering smell of coffee his mother always made too early.

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, now a little too short, then pushed his chair back slightly. He should have gone downstairs by now. Pretending to be productive had become part of the ritual, even when the page had the upper hand. The bedroom had barely changed since high school: the same shelves packed with dog-eared fantasy novels, a few figurines moved around but still there, and the window overlooking a Hawkins street that seemed frozen in time. Six years had passed since the final battle, four since their graduation, and yet the town sometimes felt as though it had stopped on that very day.

He hadn't ever truly managed to leave.

Mike stood up and grabbed the small bottle sitting near his nightstand. He shook a pill into his palm, hesitated for a second, then swallowed it with a sip of lukewarm water. The medication helped him sleep. The others—the morning ones—got him out of bed. None of them fully silenced the nightmares. Eleven always disappeared the same way, and he was never able to do anything, not even in his own mind.

He chased the image away with a blink, took a deep breath, and left his room. The smell of coffee and cooling pancakes still hung in the air.

Karen was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. She looked up when he came in.
"You're already working?" she asked softly.

Mike nodded.
"I'm trying."

She smiled at him—that careful smile she'd learned to use with him, as if one sudden movement might shatter him. Before, he would have found it suffocating. Now, it was reassuring.
"The coffee's still hot," she said.
"Then the morning isn't a total loss," he replied, grabbing a mug.

She let out a slightly raspy laugh, more relieved than amused. His mother bore marks of the battle too; her vocal cords had never fully recovered from the gash she'd suffered.
"Nancy's downstairs," she added. "She's waiting for you."

As if that were a surprise.

Mike took a sip of coffee—too strong, as always—then set the mug in the sink, still half full. He headed down to the basement, long since transformed into a brighter, tidier space, as if the house had decided to move on before they had.

Nancy was sitting on the old couch, a cardboard folder resting on her knees. Her hair was shorter than before now, framing her face. What surprised him was that she looked ready for work, her press badge hanging around her neck, yet she was waiting for him with clear anticipation.

She looked up as soon as he appeared at the top of the stairs.
"You look like you slept... a little," she observed.
"Enough not to spill coffee," he replied with a shrug.

He let a second pass, then added,
"Which, by my current standards, counts as a win."

She sketched a smile, then tapped the folder.
"I got this this morning. Well... you got this."

Mike frowned and stepped closer. The logo on the cover wasn't his usual publisher's. This one was neat. More confident. He read the address.

"New York?" he murmured.
"A big house," Nancy confirmed. "Very big. They read your last manuscript. They want to make you an offer."

"Of course they do," he breathed. "That's their job."

He sat down beside her, the folder still closed between them, like a potentially dangerous object.
"But I already have a publisher," he added automatically.
"I know. And they know that too... but this would be a change. A huge change."
"I haven't even finished what I'm writing right now," he said.
"You haven't written a single line today, have you?"