Friday, November 10, 2023

Brandon had another nightmare. They still came most nights. He sat up in his bed, but instead of reaching for the lamp, he pulled back the curtains to look at the stars.

From next door, Brandon heard a faint melody. The damper pedal was in place, but the delicate, ethereal notes of Clair de Lune filtered through the wall to reach him. He let the song wash over him and lull him back into sleep.

The next morning, Brandon woke up early. He ate a quick breakfast and put on his suit—a new one he had indulged in last month. He called out, “good morning!” to Angela as he passed her on their front porch, then made his way to the University.

It had been three months since his first lecture. It had taken Brandon awhile to recover from the initial shock of that first speech, but the president had asked him back. And Brandon had said yes.

The people waved as he marched past them. “Good morning! How are you?” Their voices rang. Brandon waved at a trio of children skipping rope. The one in the middle messed up, and they switched positions, laughing.

It had only been three months, but something had changed in the city. Brandon’s talk had stirred them, somehow. Mr. Morgan, who, because of a stroke, no longer had the steady hands to paint realistic portraits, had tried more abstract art, letting the tremors in his hands make unique designs. Old widowed Mrs. Lewis, who had lived on her own for the past ten years, welcomed her neighbors and let them talk to her about whatever they wanted. The Harrisons, a young couple who had been in their early teens at the time of the disaster, hosted a weekly gathering to teach teenagers.

Brandon reached the lecture hall. It was empty. In an hour or two, it would fill up. But for now, Brandon liked it the way it was.

He took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and pulled out his notes.

“To my sister. Emily.” He said, his voice echoing through the rows of chairs. “You were right.”

Somewhere, he knew she was laughing.