Chapter 2: The Quiet Corner
Another month had passed since I first stepped into Henry's shop, and I won't lie—it's kind of majestic. It's not majestic in the grand, towering way of cathedrals or skyscrapers, but in the way it feels so alive and warm, like a little world all its own. The shop is small, nestled between two larger buildings, with ivy creeping along its old brick exterior. Inside, the wooden shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with books of every kind imaginable. The air is rich with the scent of aged paper and cedar wood, and when the sun hits the wide front window, it casts golden beams across the floor, giving the space a dreamlike quality.
There's an old armchair near the corner, a perfect spot for reading, and a small counter where Henry keeps a tiny bell that jingles when customers arrive. It's not a fancy place by any means, but it has a charm that draws people in, like stepping into the pages of a storybook.
A couple of weeks ago, Henry and I had a conversation that changed how I saw this new life.
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It was after dinner, the two of us sitting on the worn sofa in the living room. Henry had brought up the subject of school, his tone careful, as if he'd been mulling it over for a while.
"I've been thinking, Ethan," he said, while looking into my eyes, "about school. You know, regular school."
I looked at him, waiting for him to continue.
"You're a smart kid, and I know you'd do well in any school you went to. But I've noticed you don't seem too keen on interacting with other kids. You don't have to say it—I can see it." He paused, rubbing his chin. "So I was thinking… maybe we could try homeschooling instead. You could learn here, at your own pace. We could even use the shop as a sort of classroom."
I stared at him, trying to process his words.
"I'll admit," he added, his voice softening, "I have a selfish reason for suggesting this. I like having you around. After losing so much… well, I want to spend as much time with you as I can. Maybe it's not fair, asking you to stay out of school for my sake. But if you think you'd be okay with it, I'd like to give it a try."
His words hung in the air for a moment, and I could see the vulnerability in his eyes. He wasn't just making a decision for me—he was opening up a part of himself he didn't often share.
"I think I'd like that," I said Softly. "I mean, regular school isn't all it's cracked up to be anyway. And if it means we get to spend more time together… well, that's not so bad."
Henry smiled, relief washing over his face. "Alright then, homeschooling it is."
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Now, as I stood in the shop, organizing books with Henry, I couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging. The shop was more than just a place to work—it was home. At the back of the shop, there was a small desk with an old computer on it. Henry had mentioned offhandedly that it had internet access but was rarely used. "You can use it whenever you like," he'd said. "It's not much, but it does the job."
I planned to make good use of that computer.
Henry and I worked quietly for a while, returning books to their rightful places on the shelves. The soft creak of the floorboards and the occasional flutter of a turning page filled the air.
"Ethan," Henry said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Can I tell you something?"
"Of course," I replied, glancing at him.
He paused, carefully placing a worn book back on the shelf. "For a long time, I thought money and career were all that mattered. I thought if I could just build something big enough, strong enough, it would protect me from the pain of losing the people I loved. But you know what I learned?"
I shook my head, waiting for him to continue.
"I learned that no amount of money, no job, no title can fill the emptiness of a life without connection. Memories, Ethan. Memories with the people we love—that's what lasts. That's what matters."
I nodded slowly, his words sinking in.
"And that's why I felt so selfish," he admitted. "Asking you to do homeschooling. Because I don't want you to miss out on making connections of your own. But… I also don't want to lose this time with you. It's selfish, I know, but I want to make memories with you while I still can."
I looked at him, feeling a mix of emotions. "It's not selfish, Henry. It's… human. And I'm glad we're doing this. I wouldn't trade it for anything."
Henry smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're a good kid, Ethan. You really are."
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Later that evening, as we returned home, Henry's words replayed in my mind. Memories, connection—he was right. My old life had been all about the grind, the chase for success. But what had it left me with? Regret.
As I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, a thought struck me. The computer in the shop. It wasn't just a relic of Henry's attempt to modernize—it could be my way of building something for myself. In 2035, programming had been my bread and butter, and the tech of 2005 was like child's play by comparison.
I could use it to make money, sure, but more importantly, I could use it to unwind, to have fun in a way that felt natural to me. White-hat hacking, coding—it wasn't just work; it was a puzzle, a game. And here, in this simpler time, it could be a fresh start.
As I turned the idea over in my mind, another thought crept in. Henry had this way of treating me like both a child and an adult, and I wasn't sure how he managed it. He asked for my opinion on everything—big decisions, small ones, even things that didn't seem to matter much. Yet, at the same time, he was protective, careful, always ensuring I felt safe and cared for. It was a strange balance, but I found I liked it. After all, I couldn't imagine myself being treated like a helpless seven-year-old who couldn't even decide what to eat. Henry respected me in ways that made me feel seen, and somehow, that made all the difference.
With that thought, a small smile crept onto my face. Maybe this new life had more possibilities than I'd realized.
Henry Pov :
It was the first time in years I had seen eyes like hers. Light green, the kind that seemed to steal your breath without even trying. They had that same warmth, but also that same hurt—a quiet, aching pain that spoke of losses far too great for a child.
When I saw those eyes, I couldn't look away. I didn't know why at first, but something inside me stirred, something I thought had gone quiet long ago. Maybe it was the resemblance to my daughter, or maybe it was the way his gaze carried a weight far beyond his years. Either way, I knew I had to act. Even with my old age, even with the risks, I decided to adopt him.
Ethan. That's the name I came to know him by. And the more time I spent with him, the more captivated I became. There was something about the way he carried himself—so adult, so composed—that felt familiar. It wasn't uncommon among orphans, that sense of growing up too fast, but Ethan's way of expressing it was different. It wasn't just that he acted older than his age; it was that he seemed to know how to act, how to say the right thing at the right time, as if he had lived through more than anyone should.
At first, I treated him like any smart kid, asking for his opinions on little things, wanting to include him in decisions that might shape his future. I was curious, I'll admit. Curious about the thoughts behind those green eyes, about the way he saw the world. But then, I started listening—really listening—to his answers. And I realized just how much there was to this boy.
He didn't just answer questions; he answered them with insight, with a quiet confidence that made you believe he had thought everything through. It wasn't the kind of maturity you expected from a seven-year-old, and it left me with a strange, growing certainty that this boy was something special.
And then there was the other side of it—how much he reminded me of her. My daughter. I told myself not to compare them, not to let my grief blur the lines between who she was and who he is. But I couldn't help it. I saw her in his steadiness, in the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world without letting it show.
I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself for the mistakes I made with her, for the times I wasn't there when I should have been. But with Ethan, I have a second chance. A chance to do better, to be better.
I just hope I don't let him down, like i did to Her.