His Name was Miracle

part one

listening to the song with the story is recommended!

*******

I took a step out of the yellow cab and heard a crunch as my boots met with fallen leaves littering the ground. It was Autumn here, and I could feel the mixture of the warmth and cold—of sunlight and chilling air. My breath was misty and white, and I dug around my purse to fetch money for a pleasant elderly man with a toothy grin. 

His music that he'd composed himself was still blasting on the old speakers, "You take care of yourself, Ms. Waters." It was a quiet comment, mostly because of his raspy accent failed to carry his voice but nonetheless, I heard him and gave him one of my small smiles. 

"Thanks, Ray, I hope you take care of yourself and maybe get lucky with the lottery. I bet your wife is expecting something nice later this week," Ray chuckled and nodded his head. I grabbed my suitcase from the back of the taxi and slammed the door, waving a last farewell as my taxi driver pulled out of a driveway and to an empty road. 

Turning around, I could feel the nostalgia blooming in my chest when I saw my old, worn-out home that appealed to no one but me. It was my very own kingdom for as long as I remembered, even when I left for college I couldn't help but cry as I hugged the tall lone tree next to my bedroom window, the very same tree that helped me fall and sprain my arm, and the one that shaded my view as I had my first kiss. My house wasn't grand, decent at most with beige colors inside-and-out and Victorian-themed windows. It was still my own very castle. 

I began walking in front of the door and pushed a key into the lock, taking a little bit of effort to twist it. When I did, it took everything I could to open the heavy door, which brought out a wave of dust. I coughed until there were tears in my eyes, thankfully the air from the outside circulated the room. 

My home looked unused, abandoned. I glanced at the images on the walls and the furniture, to the dead flowers in a crystal vase. I softly smiled at a framed picture sitting on top of the fireplace; the one I and my family took in  a vacation at a beach. Sand, the sun, and smiles, and so much sunscreen. There in the family portrait a man had tired eyes lined with crows feet, however, he smiled as broadly as his mouth could stretch; the woman beside him had a small smile but her eyes looked flustered and panicked with her hands on the two younger children's shoulder—both of them seemed to have survived an apocalypse. My finger traced over a girl with hazel eyes and brown hair in a messy ponytail, untamed tendrils trying to escape. She was young in this picture, her freckles were still dark on her face and her left dimple poked out as she grinned happily at the camera with a missing front tooth, a stark contrast to a brooding boy next to her. He too had the same freckles and eyes but he had the hair of sunshine, wild and disheveled from the blowing wind.

A piece of paper poked out from behind the frame and neatly it was written:

Welcome back

I don't know why I wasn't shocked at a strange note tucked cleanly and carefully on a personal possession of mine or the fact that someone broke into my house just to deliver a short sentence, yet I tucked it into my pocket and continued to make my home feel alive again. 

* * * * * *
It was around ten at night when I finally unpacked and nestled cozily inside my room, a glass of red wine in my hand. After changing from a tight black dress and heels to a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants, I proceeded to explore a place I haven't lived in ten years. My pale pink bunny slippers squeaked at the wooden floors every step of the way. 

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak!

I grabbed the doorknob to the storage room and opened it to find myself breathe in a gust of dust. I coughed noisily into my shirt, my eyes burned with unshed tears. Still, I went inside and looked at how dirty it was. 

More cleaning, I thought as I glanced at the littered boxes on the floor. The room was big enough to fit more than two people, and still it was filled up to the brink of unwanted, unused, and forgotten items. I sat down to open a cardboard box that was labeled "old albums."

My mouth stretched into a smile at the numerous photos spread messily in the box: me holding my prize at my first carnival—a large pink teddy bear, my brother in his James Dean costume and a small girl dressed as a ladybug next to him, and a rare photo of my mother and my father sharing a homemade dinner, both of them looking at the camera with carefree grins. I went ahead and opened another box, one that said to be burned immediately. 

Curious, I set my unfinished wine down and opened it to see sparse, scattered items.  My heart was in my throat when I realized my mistake.

When it says to be burned, take the advice and burn it! Stupid, stupid Mallory, you just opened the Pandora box.

 I felt my hands shake, I felt nauseous. I eyed the ripped letter, the numerous trinkets, and a small picture at the bottom corner. By this time, I was shaking so much I had to hold my other hand as I picked up the old and faded photograph. 

No, No, NO! Don't do this to yourself! I internally screamed; my gut twisting and wrenching. Are you trying to open old wounds?

There was me, my brown hair wavy and long to my waist sporting the same freckles, a little lighter now. Hazel eyes seemed to be a little bit more thoughtful, surrounded by thick, dark lashes that shade her view. Her pink lips were in a pout as she glanced at the boy next to her. 

Fire inflamed my insides. 

His eyes were shut but I could still remember the hue of his electric blue, the color that seemed to be mixed with the ocean and the sky. He had slightly pale skin that would be blemished with scars and cuts and the rough fingers I loved were intertwined with each other; I could still taste mint and the slight aroma of gasoline in my mouth. He laughed a deep, baritone voice with his small smile, one corner of his mouth always hunched up as he grinned happily, joyfully, but carefully. He had several tattoos lining his left arm, but my favorite was always the compass on his wrist. 

Tears were streaming down my eyes now when I remember how perfect I thought life was back then. To a seventeen-year-old, love was the most powerful possession to own. 

Love was everything to me; to love and be loved. To be wanted.

However, in one cruel moment, I realized that love was nothing but a sad twist of fate.