Tyler closed the front door behind him with the same care he always used, easing it shut until the latch clicked softly into place. The familiar scent of the house met him immediately, warm and layered. Cooked vegetables, oil heating in a pan. The steady murmur of the television from the living room, the rhythmic clink of utensils from the kitchen, and the low hum of the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead.
He slipped his shoes off near the entrance and set them neatly against the wall. For a moment, he stood there, listening, letting the day finish settling inside him.
In the kitchen, Melissa glanced over her shoulder when she heard him. A pot simmered on the stove in front of her, steam rising slowly and fogging the nearby window. She held a wooden spoon in one hand, her sleeves rolled up, hair tied back loosely.
"You're back already?" she asked, her tone lightly surprised. "I thought you were going to play longer."
Tyler stepped forward, setting the bag of school supplies down near the table. "There wasn't much to do," he replied easily. "We talked for a bit and then went back to our houses."
Melissa turned fully now, studying his face for a second as if checking for something she didn't quite expect to find. Satisfied, she nodded and turned back to the stove. "Dinner will take some time," she said. "You can relax."
"Okay," Tyler answered, his voice calm.
He moved past the kitchen and into the living room, where Silas sat on the couch, one arm resting against the cushion, his posture relaxed but attentive. The television screen cast a pale glow across the room, painting slow-moving shadows along the walls. A news channel was playing, the anchor's voice steady and practiced, carrying a cadence that made even uncertain information sound composed.
Silas didn't look away from the screen as Tyler approached, only shifting slightly to make space. Tyler sat down at the far end of the couch, leaning back, his gaze drifting toward the television without fully focusing on it.
"…with elections approaching, the provincial government has outlined a proposed relief initiative aimed at easing the financial burden on struggling households," the anchor was saying. Graphics appeared briefly on the screen, clean and reassuring in their design. Numbers, slogans, carefully chosen words.
Silas exhaled quietly through his nose. "They're starting early this year," he remarked, his tone neutral.
Melissa's voice carried in from the kitchen. "That's how it always is. Promises sound nicer when there's time to repeat them."
The anchor continued, speaking about compassion, responsibility, and long-term stability. Tyler listened without moving, his expression unchanged.
So this day finally came.
The thought surfaced with clarity, not weight. He remembered this moment, not as an image, but as a marker. A fixed point in a sequence that unfolded with unsettling precision. In his previous life, he had heard these same words spoken with the same confidence, delivered through a different screen, in a different room. The details had varied, but the structure had not.
Debt forgiven. Banks absorbing losses. Temporary measures. Delayed consequences.
He didn't feel anger. He didn't feel urgency. Recognition was enough.
Silas leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "If they actually follow through," he said, "it could help people."
Melissa hummed thoughtfully. "People need help," she replied. "That part's true."
Tyler kept his eyes on the screen, watching the anchor transition smoothly to another segment. There was no reaction he needed to perform here. No comment required. He let the conversation pass around him, taking note of the exact phrasing used, the careful avoidance of specifics.
He shifted his weight and stood up. "I'm going to my room for a bit," he said, keeping his voice light. "I'll come back when dinner's ready."
Silas nodded without looking away from the screen. "Don't go too far," he said absentmindedly.
Tyler smiled faintly and turned away, moving down the short hallway toward his room. The door closed softly behind him, muting the sounds of the house into a distant backdrop.
His room was tidy, sunlight from earlier still lingering in faint lines across the floor. The guitar leaned against the side of his bed where he had left it earlier, its surface catching a sliver of the remaining light. Tyler crossed the room and picked it up, settling onto the edge of the bed with practiced ease.
He adjusted the instrument against his body, fingers moving automatically into position. When he began to play, the sound filled the room gently, controlled and deliberate. The notes weren't fast or complex. They didn't need to be. He let the melody unfold at its own pace, the vibration of the strings grounding him in the present.
As he played, fragments of memory surfaced, not intruding, simply existing alongside the music. His father standing in a crowd, shoulders squared despite exhaustion. Conversations that circled the same unanswered questions. The quiet erosion of certainty.
The Brown family's last crisis, as he remembered it.
He shifted chords smoothly, letting the melody continue without interruption. This time, he was here. That was the only difference that mattered.
"Oh Father-Mother why you care about others so much, this thing will help citizens but it's omen for us."
The door remained closed. The world outside continued as it always did, unaware of the quiet calculations being made within a small, ordinary room.
After a while, the music slowed, then stopped. Tyler rested his hand against the strings, letting the final vibration fade completely before setting the guitar aside.
From the kitchen, Melissa's voice called out, clear and familiar. "Tyler, dinner's ready."
"Coming," he replied, standing up and placing the guitar back where it belonged.
He paused briefly, glancing around the room. Everything was in its place. The bag of supplies sat near the desk, unopened, waiting for later. He took one last look before turning off the light and heading back toward the kitchen.
The evening continued on, quiet and unremarkable. And for now, that was exactly how it was supposed to be.
Dinner passed without ceremony, which in its own way made it feel heavier than anything dramatic could have. The table was set simply, plates arranged with practiced familiarity, steam still rising faintly from the food as Melissa carried the last dish over and placed it at the center.
Silas switched off the television before sitting down, the sudden silence briefly noticeable before the softer sounds of cutlery and movement took its place. Tyler took his seat across from his parents, posture relaxed, hands resting lightly on the table as he waited.
"Vanessa and Steven called earlier," Melissa said as she settled in. "They'll be back in a few days. Work stuff."
Silas nodded. "They always pick the busiest times."
Tyler listened, offering no comment. He focused on the food as Melissa served him, thanking her quietly before beginning to eat. The flavors were familiar, comforting in their predictability. Nothing had changed here. Not yet.
They spoke about small things. Grocery prices. A neighbour who had repainted their gate. The weather forecast for the coming week. Silas mentioned that work had been steady lately, not particularly good or bad, just consistent. Melissa responded with practical observations, the kind that filled space without demanding attention.
Tyler contributed when appropriate, answering questions without elaboration, nodding along when his input wasn't required. He watched his parents more than he spoke, noting the ease in their movements, the absence of tension. This was the baseline. The point everything would eventually shift from.
When the meal was finished, Melissa began clearing the table, waving off Tyler's offer to help with a brief shake of her head. "You've had a long day," she said. "Go do what you need to do."
Tyler stood, gathering his plate and placing it carefully by the sink before turning back to them. "I'll sort my study materials," he said. "The things we bought today."
Silas looked up, approving. "Good idea. Better to do it now than rush later."
Melissa smiled faintly. "Don't stay up too late."
"I won't," Tyler replied.
He left them in the kitchen, the sounds of running water and clinking dishes following him down the hall. His room greeted him with the same quiet order he had left it in. He switched on the light and set the bag of supplies down on the desk, opening it methodically.
Notebooks came out first. He stacked them neatly, separating them by size and thickness. Pens followed, still wrapped, placed to the side. The geometry box he set near the corner of the desk, aligning it with the edge until it sat straight.
He moved slowly, deliberately. There was no rush. No sense of anticipation driving his hands. This wasn't preparation for something unknown. It was maintenance.
He opened a drawer and pulled out older notebooks from the previous year, flipping through a few pages absently. Neat handwriting. Consistent margins. Notes written not because he had been passionate, but because it had been efficient to do so. Teachers liked clarity. Schools rewarded order.
He closed the notebook and slid it back into the drawer.
Primary school had been a controlled environment. He had learned how to exist within it without friction. How to avoid unnecessary attention while still meeting expectations. It had worked. It had also demanded constant awareness, constant restraint.
Middle school would not require the same approach.
That realization sat quietly in his mind, not as a declaration, but as a simple adjustment. He wasn't discarding what he had learned. He was choosing when to apply it.
Tyler turned toward the wardrobe and retrieved the folded uniform from where he had placed it earlier. He laid it out on the bed, smoothing the fabric with his palm. The material felt familiar against his skin, heavier than casual clothes, structured in a way that signaled obligation.
He looked at it for a moment, then folded it again, placing it carefully at the edge of the bed. There was no need to hang it yet. A week remained.
Outside, the neighbourhood had grown quieter. The occasional sound of footsteps passed by, then faded. Somewhere in the distance, a vehicle engine started and stopped. The day continued its slow retreat into night.
Tyler sat down at the desk and opened one of the new notebooks, flipping through blank pages. The smell of fresh paper lingered, sharp and clean. He closed it again without writing anything.
There would be time for that later.
He leaned back in the chair and looked toward the window, where the reflection of his room faintly overlapped with the darkening street outside. The boy staring back at him looked composed, unremarkable. No trace of urgency showed on his face. No excitement, no dread.
That was fine.
He thought again of the news segment earlier, the carefully chosen words, the confidence in the anchor's voice. The way his father had listened without concern. The way his mother had responded with cautious hope.
Nothing had changed yet. That was the important part.
Tyler stood and turned off the desk lamp, leaving only the dim ceiling light on as he moved toward the bed. He sat down briefly, then lay back, resting his hands against his chest. The ceiling fan spun slowly above him, its rhythm steady and unbroken.
A week remained.
Time enough for nothing to happen. Time enough for everything to stay exactly as it was.
That, he knew, was how it always began.
He closed his eyes, letting the quiet of the house settle around him. Somewhere down the hall, Silas and Melissa spoke softly to each other, their voices low and indistinct. The world continued, unaware and unbothered.
Tomorrow would be another ordinary day in a string of ordinary days.
And for now, Tyler let it be that way.