Kapitel 75: Occurrens veteribus-LXXV
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DATE:8th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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The next morning, I found myself cleaning up Alice's apartment, tossing the mountains of takeout boxes into garbage bags. Amid the mundane chore, Alice casually mentioned something that made me freeze.
She said that William Carter's parents—"my parents"—had reached out to her.
"They want to see you," she added, carefully watching my reaction.
I tried to argue. Impersonating William had been a necessity at the time, but dragging this lie further felt wrong. "It's not ethical, Alice. I can't keep pretending."
Her response was sharp but measured. "They haven't seen you—him—for years. For 'William Carter' to suddenly reappear, only to ignore them for months... It's not right. They might try to find you on their own, and that could put them in danger."
I knew she was right, as much as I hated to admit it. If this charade had consequences for anyone, it would be on me. Eventually, I agreed.
"I'll tell them the truth when we're there."
Alice nodded but didn't press me further. We packed a few clothes and made our way to the tower's underground parking lot. There, I noticed something unexpected—Alice's old Miata, rebuilt and gleaming under the dim lights.
"You fixed it?" I asked, a note of surprise in my voice.
Alice smirked slightly as she slid into the driver's seat. "Of course. You underestimate me."
The drive out of the city took us to a small town about sixty kilometers toward Ventia. It was a quiet place, unassuming, but I couldn't help feeling out of place as we got closer.
William Carter's father was a sheriff, a position that sounded prestigious at first but was really more like a state-sanctioned bounty hunter. They had the authority to enter homes, make arrests, and detain people for up to a month. A strange, almost mercenary-like job that didn't seem to have been made neither by the Unified Kingdom's administration nor Concord's feudal history. Supposedly he was one of the nicer sheriffs, but it was still strange...
I stopped trying to make sense of it and focused on the conversation ahead.
When we arrived at their home, I took in the modest two-story building. It was well-kept and surrounded by a large fruit garden, the scent of peaches and apples hanging faintly in the air.
Alice walked beside me, and I couldn't help but notice her outfit—a simple white dress with subtle frills. It suited her, softening her usual sharp edges.
I knocked on the door, my chest tightening with every second that passed.
William's—my—mother answered. She wore a heavy dress, far too much for summer, but her smile was warm and genuine. The moment her eyes met mine, recognition sparked, and I didn't need to say a word.
"William!" she exclaimed, pulling me into a tight hug. Her embrace was overwhelming, her emotions clear in the way she held me as if afraid I might vanish.
She welcomed us inside, guiding us to the dining table already set with a platter of fresh blueberries, apples, and peaches. As we sat, she explained that William Sr. was still out working.
Her questions came quickly, her curiosity genuine. "What have you been up to all these years?"
I defaulted to the easiest lie I could manage. "I've been traveling, taking photos around the world."
She smiled, seemingly satisfied with my answer. I glanced at Alice, who had been introduced as my girlfriend. She added her own detail, claiming to be a close friend of Kevin—"my" cousin.
I nodded along, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I couldn't keep up this façade much longer. The truth needed to come out when both parents were here. Until then, I'd play along.
The moment William's father entered the house, the air seemed to shift. He was a towering figure, broad-shouldered, and imposing in his sheriff's uniform. His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he made his way into the living room. His piercing gaze landed on me, and for a brief moment, I braced myself.
Then his stern expression broke. His eyes softened, shimmering with tears he didn't try to hide.
"Son…" His voice cracked as he walked over. He didn't hesitate to pull me into a strong embrace, the kind that left no room for doubt about his emotions. "I've missed you."
The hug lasted longer than I was prepared for. When he pulled back, he looked me over, his hands gripping my shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice heavy. "For all the times I didn't understand you. For not appreciating your passion for photography."
I nodded, forcing a small smile. "I forgive you."
The words felt foreign in my mouth, but they seemed to ease something in him. It wasn't really my place to say that, but William Carter Jr. Was already dead. At the very least I could alleviate their pain. His wife appeared then, wiping her hands on an apron and smiling at us both.
"Dinner's ready," she said warmly, gesturing for us to follow her into the dining room.
The table was set simply but beautifully, with mismatched plates and a steaming pot of mushroom stew at its center. The aroma of earthy mushrooms and herbs filled the air, blending with the faint scent of wood polish and lavender from a vase of dried flowers on the table. A loaf of freshly baked bread sat on a wooden board, accompanied by a small dish of butter.
"Sit, sit," his wife urged, placing bowls in front of us. "It's been so long since we've had family at this table."
I sat down with Alice by my side, and William's father joined us, his uniform creaking slightly as he settled into his chair.
"This is my famous mushroom stew," she announced proudly as she ladled portions into each bowl. "I used to make it all the time when you were a boy. Do you remember?"
I nodded again, taking a spoonful. The flavor was rich and comforting, a perfect blend of savory mushrooms, thyme, and garlic. It tasted like a memory I didn't own.
As we ate, conversation flowed easily. They talked about the town, their neighbors, and small bits of local gossip. They didn't press me too hard about where I'd been, satisfied with my vague explanation about traveling and photography.
Alice joined in, charming them with stories about our supposed adventures together. She even mentioned how we'd met through Kevin, which earned approving nods.
"You've found yourself a good one," William's father said, raising his spoon toward Alice. "She's got that spark. Reminds me of your mother when we first met."
Alice smiled politely, her cheeks tinged pink, but I could see the unease in her eyes.
As the meal progressed, I couldn't help but notice how happy they seemed. They laughed easily, reminiscing about old times and sharing little anecdotes about William's childhood. His mother told a story about him climbing a tree to rescue a bird's nest, while his father teased him for refusing to eat mushrooms for years as a child.
But through it all, a question gnawed at the back of my mind: Why didn't they suspect me?
I didn't look like William—not exactly. His nose was broader, his face lined with the years I hadn't lived. And he was supposed to be forty, yet here I sat, looking no older than twenty-five.
But if they noticed the discrepancies, they didn't show it. They were too busy basking in the joy of having their son home.
Toward the end of the meal, his father leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his stomach. "It's good to see you happy," he said, his gaze shifting between me and Alice. "I always worried you'd never settle down."
Alice reached for my hand under the table, squeezing it slightly.
"You've come a long way, son," his mother added, her voice soft with emotion. "I'm so proud of you."
Pride. Forgiveness. Happiness. None of it was mine to claim, and yet here I was, stealing it from a man who no longer existed.
As we finished dinner, his father turned to us with a grin. "You're staying the night, right? You'd better not be planning to run off again."
I exchanged a glance with Alice, who nodded subtly.
"Of course," I said.
"Good." He stood, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You can take your old room. Or…" He paused, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "You two can share it. Up to you."
His wife smacked his arm playfully. "Leave them be, William."
"My" former room was small, with a bed barely big enough for one person, let alone two. The decision was obvious.
We laughed awkwardly, and I felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on me. I'd given them a son for the night, a son who wasn't theirs.
He left us in the childhood room, and Alice sat on the edge of the bed while I wandered over to the desk.
The room was a time capsule of William Carter's life. The walls were covered with photographs cut from science atlases and magazines, alongside wrestling posters and figurines. The combination was strange but endearing, reflecting a man who seemed to have been torn between intellectual curiosity and a love for his cousin, Kevin's world of athletics.
A framed photo on the desk caught my attention. It was of William and Kevin at one of Kevin's exhibitions. William's expression was genuine—happy in a way that felt distant and foreign to me.
I sat beside Alice, running a hand through my hair. "I don't know how to tell them," I admitted, the weight of the lie pressing down on me.
She didn't have an answer either. Her silence said as much.
We exchanged a soft "Goodnight" and decided to let tomorrow handle itself. For now, we would sleep, though my mind was anything but at ease.
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DATE:9th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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The next morning, I woke up early, the light filtering through the blinds marking the start of a crisp countryside day. I stretched lazily, feeling the stiffness from sleeping on the unfamiliar bed, and went to brush my teeth.
The house was quiet; it seemed I was the first one awake. After freshening up, I decided to wake Alice. I knocked on the guest room door softly and then peeked in. She was sprawled out across the bed, her hair a wild mess, tangled in ways I hadn't thought possible. Did she toss and turn that much in her sleep?
"Wake up," I said, shaking her shoulder gently. She groaned and blinked up at me groggily, her eyes squinting in the morning light.
"Five more minutes," she murmured, pulling the blanket over her head. I wonder how late she went to sleep.
I chuckled and left to ask my mother for a comb. She was just starting her day too, moving about the kitchen in a sleepy daze. She handed me a sturdy wooden comb, and I brought it back to Alice.
She eventually made her way to the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror and battling her hair with the comb. I leaned against the doorframe, watching her struggle.
"This is harder than it looks," she muttered, her frustration growing with every stroke.
"Maybe don't roll around so much next time," I teased, earning a glare in the mirror.
By the time we joined my mother in the kitchen, she had prepared a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and thick slices of ham. The aroma was warm and inviting, a mix of sizzling fat and fresh herbs.
"This is meat from the neighbors," she explained, placing plates in front of us. "They raise pigs, and we trade apples for their ham."
I took a bite, noting the rich, fatty flavor. It was fresher than anything I'd had in the city, but I couldn't help comparing it to the Ventian pork I grew up with—leaner and usually smoked, its flavor undiluted by oil.
"It's different," I commented, not unkindly. "But it's good."
My mother beamed at the compliment, clearly pleased. Alice, meanwhile, seemed content to devour her portion without any critique.
After breakfast, William Sr. grabbed his hat and left to tend to the garden. My mother suggested I change into some of his old work clothes and help him with the apples. Alice decided to join in, and we both changed into something more practical before heading out.
We walked through the small village toward the orchard. The houses we passed were quaint and rustic, with vines climbing their walls and chickens wandering freely in their yards. A group of children playing by the roadside stopped to watch us, giggling and whispering to each other.
"The sheriff's son," one of them said, loud enough for me to hear.
I glanced at Alice, puzzled. "How do they even know who I'm supposed to be?"
She shrugged, a faint smirk on her face.
The orchard itself was expansive, rows upon rows of apple trees with their branches heavy with ripened fruit. William Sr. was already there, his hat shading his face as he worked.
"About time," he said with a grin, gesturing to the baskets at his feet. "Let's get to it."
The morning passed in a rhythm of picking apples, filling baskets, and loading them into an old truck parked at the edge of the orchard. William explained that most of the apples were traded with neighbors for meat or other goods.
"My job doesn't leave much time for selling at the market," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "But we make do."
As we worked, I couldn't help but ask about his role as sheriff.
"It's not quite what you think," he said, chuckling. "I'm elected by the town. If I mess up, they can vote me out just as easily."
"That's surprisingly democratic," I said, though I couldn't shake the thought of how easily public opinion could be manipulated.
He went on to explain his duties: resolving disputes, detaining criminals, checking for invasive wildlife, and even acting as a stand-in for the absent police and mayor.
"Why doesn't the town have a mayor?" I asked.
"Bureaucracy," he said with a wry smile. "The Royal Governor decided to centralize everything in Concord, so towns like ours had to improvise."
"Sounds like a lot for one person to handle."
"It is," he admitted. "And the pay doesn't match the work. But someone's gotta do it."
He recounted a recent story about taking down a van full of gangsters.
"How did you manage that alone?" I asked, genuinely curious.
He said he ambushed them while they were illegally burying a body.
"Had to use a club," he said casually, as if it were just another part of the job. I wonder if he could take down my real father... Probably not. My father was even bigger.
By the time we finished, it was nearly noon. The truck was loaded with apples, and we walked back to the house together. My mother had prepared a light lunch—a fresh salad with greens from her garden and a tangy vinaigrette.
Sitting on the porch afterward, enjoying the peaceful countryside, I realized how different this life was from the chaos of the city. It wasn't perfect, but it had its charms. For a moment, I almost envied it.
That evening, I informed my parents that I had business in the city and would be leaving the next day. They seemed a bit disappointed, but there wasn't much I could do. I had already stayed longer than I intended.
After dinner, Alice and I decided to take a walk around the town. The air was cool and refreshing, the fading sunlight painting the rooftops in warm hues. My mother, ever eager to play matchmaker, suggested I take Alice to a "nice spot by the ledge." Of course, I had no idea where that was, but I decided to wing it.
We followed the river, its gentle current reflecting the last light of day. The town was quiet, the streets mostly empty except for a few late stragglers heading home. At some point, a group of children ran up to us, their faces pale with panic.
"One of our friends fell off the ledge!" one of them cried.
Without hesitation, we followed their frantic pointing to a small overlook. There, about six meters below, was a boy lying on the riverbank, clutching his leg in obvious pain.
"Stay back," Alice said, already calculating her next move. She lowered her gravity and leapt from the ledge, her descent slow and controlled. As she landed beside the boy, she reached out and carefully lowered his gravity too, wrapping her arms around him before pushing off with a light jump. Together, they floated back to the top, as if defying the laws of physics.
I took the boy from her arms, his weight heavier than expected but manageable. Together, we carried him to my father's office, where he was buried in paperwork.
"We need to get him to a hospital," I said, the urgency clear in my voice.
My father frowned and leaned back in his chair. "No doctor will look at him," he said matter-of-factly.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. "What do you mean? He's a kid with a broken leg."
"No one in Concord has insurance," he said with a sigh. "And the central hospital? They're backed up for a month, even for emergencies. It's not how things work out here."
He reached into a drawer and handed me a set of keys. "Take him to the basement. I'll call his parents and take a look at his leg."
Confused but resigned, I carried the boy down the creaky wooden stairs, Alice trailing behind me. She took the keys and fiddled with the basement lock, the strange shape of the key making it a frustrating task. After a minute, she managed to get it open.
The basement was cool and dimly lit, with three distinct rooms. The largest one held shelves of preserved fruits and smoked meats, its air rich with the scent of aged goods. The other two rooms were locked, but my father had told us to use the first.
We opened the door to find what looked like a makeshift operating room. Stainless steel counters lined the walls, and an old, slightly rusted operating table stood at the center, surrounded by various medical tools.
I began rummaging through the cabinets, looking for anything useful. Moments later, my father joined us, switching on a bright overhead operating light that illuminated the room in stark detail.
He pulled a rolling stool closer to the table, handed the boy a pill and a glass of water, and inspected the injured leg. The break was obvious, the bone slightly protruding beneath the skin.
"Hold him still," he instructed, motioning for me and Alice to steady the boy.
I gripped his arms while Alice held his shoulders. The boy whimpered, his body tensing as my father took hold of his leg.
With a sharp, practiced movement, he pushed the bone back into place. The snap was sickening, and the boy let out a scream, struggling against our grip. But we held firm, and after a few agonizing seconds, he quieted, his breathing shallow but steady.
My father straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. "There," he said, his tone calm and almost indifferent. "He'll be fine. Just needs rest."
We carried the boy back upstairs, where his parents were waiting anxiously by the door. My father gave them quick instructions to keep him in bed and avoid putting weight on the leg for a few days.
As they thanked him profusely and left, I couldn't help but feel uneasy. My father's nonchalant demeanor, his casual acceptance of this patchwork system, was unsettling.
In Ventia, for all its flaws and corruption, there were doctors, hospitals, and a healthcare system—even if imperfect. Here, they had nothing. No infrastructure, no safety net. It was a stark reminder of how different life in Concord was.
"How do they survive like this?" I muttered, half to myself.
Alice didn't answer, but her expression mirrored my unease. We retreated to our rooms in silence, the weight of the evening heavy on my mind.
Dinner was another Concord classic—smoked fish served with slices of lemon. I couldn't say I was thrilled by the pairing. To me, it was too acidic, overwhelming the natural flavor of the fish. But I couldn't deny the quality of the ingredients. At least they had that going for them.
Afterward, my father announced that he had something special to show us. We settled in the living room as he fiddled with the television, trying to get it to work. The device looked ancient, the kind of boxy contraption I hadn't seen since my early days in Ventia. Finally, the screen flickered to life, and an old recording began to play.
It was a video of "me," or rather, William Jr., with Sarah and Kevin. The footage was shaky, as if taken by an unsteady hand, and bathed in the soft graininess of age. It was a birthday celebration. In the video, we were playing in the mud, carefree and messy.
Then came the next clip: the three of us eating cake with the same lack of decorum. Frosting smeared across our faces, crumbs littering the table, and laughter echoing in the background.
My parents were enraptured. Their eyes glistened with tears, no doubt reminiscing about simpler, happier times. But for me, the scene was like a punch to the gut.
I couldn't relate to any of it.
My own childhood had been nothing like this. My mother wouldn't even let me watch cartoons. The only books in our house were Ventian holy texts and debates—dense, impenetrable discussions about morality and theology. Hardly material for a child.
My interactions with family were no better. On my father's side, they were all thugs and bullies. Any so-called "playtime" was a thinly veiled excuse for violence—brutal, calculated attacks that left no visible marks. Visible injuries invited worse punishment from our parents.
On my mother's side, the family was full of priests. Unlike the Unified Religion, the old Ventian faith permitted marriage among clergy, but nepotism was rampant. Without a relative in the system, you had no chance of becoming a priest. And what could I, a child, even talk to their offspring about? Their lives revolved around a faith I despised, a hypocritical system upheld by the same criminals who made my daily existence a living hell. A religion where all their church goers are murderers and drug dealers and thieves and loan sharks... But no one even batted an eye. Crime was so common it was essentially a part of Ventian society.
That dammed moto of "forgiveness". Truly, how many times can a mistake be repeated and not be considered permanent?
How can you go to heaven just because a priest forgave you... When you brought the world so much suffering?
What kind of God is this?
Where was God when I was beaten for the smallest infractions?
Where was God when my classmates were mugged just steps from the school gates?
The idea of a normal childhood—of parents who loved and protected you—was as alien to me as some distant, utopian dream. Yet here, in these recordings, William Jr. appeared genuinely happy. Laughing, playing, enjoying life in a way I never could.
My parents sat silently, their eyes damp as the video came to an end. I knew why. They were still mourning Kevin, the boy in the video who was no longer with them. They said they were relieved I hadn't shared his fate.
I felt a weight in my chest.
How could I tell them the truth? That I wasn't their son? That the boy in these recordings was gone in a way they couldn't comprehend?
Wouldn't it be kinder to leave them with this illusion?
For all my cynicism, even I knew that sometimes, the truth wasn't the better option.
That night I went to sleep with a lot of my mind and found myself in a familiar void.-*-*-*-*-*
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein