The Echos of the Brothers
Michael stared at me with that familiar, unyielding calm as the waiter slid our cups between us. The café hummed softly around us: the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of strangers, the faint clink of spoons meeting porcelain. The air smelled of cinnamon and burnt sugar, a warmth that didn't quite reach the space between us.
He didn't speak at first. He never did. He just watched, patient as ever, waiting for my storm to pass. Then, after a slow sip of his caramel latte, he said quietly, "Who was the girl?"
I didn't have to ask which girl he meant."Just a random girl," I said, the lie tasting stale.
Michael's brow arched, amusement flickering at the edges of his composure. "A random girl? You don't talk to random girls, Aubrey. So what's her name?"
I didn't answer. My silence was enough. I hadn't asked her name.All I remembered were her hazel eyes and the half-smile that lingered when she'd said goodbye. The sound of her laughter still clung to the inside of my head, woven with the memory of that imperfect snowflake she'd left behind.
"Snowflake," I murmured before I could stop myself.
Michael leaned forward. "Her name is Snowflake?"
I ignored the question, letting the bitterness of the coffee burn down my throat. The warmth did nothing to thaw the cold that had settled somewhere deep in my chest.
"So," I said, steering away from the subject, "what's your decision? Am I in?"
He studied me for a long moment before setting his cup down with a soft clink. I saw the answer on his face before he spoke."Aubrey…" He sighed, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. "I think it's best if you participate."
I laughed once, dry and humourless. "Of course. So my father can have another trophy to polish?"
Michael's gaze softened. "This isn't about your father. It's about you."
I shook my head, staring out the window where frost trailed the glass. "If I compete, I'll never get out. You know what comes next—contracts, rehearsals, lights that never turn off. I'll be trapped again."
He looked around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned closer, his voice lowering."Aubrey," he said, "seeing you pick up a paintbrush again… it was like watching a dream that already knows it's dying."
The words landed like a quiet blow. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that the dream wasn't dead, only sleeping. But my throat closed around the truth.
You should be a painter. Your hands… they're gifted.
Her voice drifted through me like a prayer. I glanced down at my hands, trembling slightly over the cup. The veins stood out, blue beneath pale skin. These were the same hands that once made music, shaped colour, built worlds. The same hands that had also learned how to let them go.
"Do you really think they're gifted?" I asked softly.
Michael blinked, thrown. "Aubrey, that's not—"
"Then why push me to compete?" I cut in. My tone was sharp but tired, like a blade dulled by use.
He hesitated, fingers tapping against the table. "Because chasing dreams you can't reach… it destroys you. I don't want that for you."
A hollow laugh escaped me. "Do you think I'm like Alex?"
The question cracked the air between us. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened. He set his cup down too hard."No," he said, his voice flat, final. "You're nothing like Alex."
The silence that followed was heavier than anger.He stood abruptly, pulling out his wallet. "Let's go."
The bill was paid, the door held open. Sunlight spilled through the entrance, catching in his hair, turning him into silhouette. Outside, the winter air bit against my skin—clean, bracing, real.
We drove without speaking. The soft hum of the engine and the whisper of jazz on the radio filled the space words had abandoned. Through the window, the city slipped away: concrete turning to coastline, buildings dissolving into a horizon of violet and gold. The sun dipped low, its reflection trembling on the surface of the water, a wound of light that refused to close.
Michael's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, quiet, watchful. I turned toward the window again. The sea caught the dying light like glass; for a moment, it looked as if the sky itself was bleeding.
This car used to carry laughter.Alex and I would fight over the front seat while Michael pretended not to hear, humming along to the radio, smiling when he thought we weren't looking. The memory arrived whole—bright, intact, painful in its clarity.
We'd beg the chauffeur to drive us to the beach, promising secrecy. When the door opened, salt and wind rushed in, and suddenly the world felt infinite. We'd race barefoot through the sand until our lungs ached, shouting nonsense into the waves. When night fell, we'd lie there beneath the stars, believing they shone for us alone.
But infinity never lasts. Parents find out. Secrets crumble. Childhood fades into consequence.
I remember that afternoon—the one that cracked the illusion.The fountain in the garden was spilling sunlight, the water throwing tiny rainbows into the air. I was crying, though I can't remember what for anymore. Maybe it wasn't about anything at all.
Alex found me there. Thirteen years old, calmer than I'd ever been, already carrying the gravity that would one day drown him. He knelt beside me, his shadow stretching across mine.
"What's wrong, Aubrey?" he asked, wiping my tears with the sleeve of his shirt.
"Dad fired Uncle Gren," I hiccuped.
He smiled faintly, brushing my hair away from my eyes. "Don't worry, little brother. I'll talk to him."
"Do you think he'll listen?"
He hesitated, then smiled again — that bright, impossible smile. "Even if he doesn't, Mom will."
We believed him. We believed in family, in promises, in forever.
Until the day Mom handed Dad the divorce papers.
That was the day the house turned to stone — the day laughter became echo, and we learned that forever was just another word for not long enough.