LABOUR OF LOVE, outlander

chapter one

CHAPTER ONE
THE IMPROBABLE

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People disappeared all the time.

Teenagers angry at their parents ran away in the middle of the night, traumatized war veterans left their homes without intending to return and victims of domestic abuse got on a train going to a different place than they'd told their abuser.

Most of the time they were found. Just about every disappearance had an explanation, every mystery had its answer. At least, they were supposed to.

Aoife Macbeth had looked into many as she helped her father run his historical magazine. Her father, Patrick, was something akin to obsessed with the history of their homeland of Scotland. She'd helped him all her life, from arranging the boxes of text and images on the pages to finding stories to be researched to finally, researching herself and venturing out to take photos as she got older.

The human memory had always been something of an idle interest to her, how it was so fallible yet so strong. One could recall with perfect detail the description of a stuffed animal they'd had and then lost in their childhood but witnesses to a crime could struggle to recall even the colour of the escape vehicle they'd been staring at.

Later, Aoife would grapple with her own memory. She would be able to recall with perfect clarity the day her whole life changed, the day she said goodbye to her father for what she believed would be the last time. She could almost recall the phantom smell of the breakfast her father made for the two of them, the way the light danced on the glassware, casting patterns of rainbows on the walls and most of all her father's smile at her from across the table.

For the rest of her days, she would struggle to remember just about anything from the week that led up to that morning. Despite so many things, long conversations with her best friend and meals with her father, calls with the postal service about picking up the coming week's magazine and finishing a season of her favourite show, aside from the fact that it happened, she could hardly recall anything more.

But she knew one thing for certain. If she was given the chance to go back, to change her mind and do everything differently... She wouldn't change a damn thing.

The morning began just as so many had. Aoife woke and dressed for the day ahead of her, deciding on one of her longer and heavier skirts to chase out the cold that came with the middle of October, pairing it with a long-sleeved shirt and one of her long cardigans, too. When she had tied back her red hair, she finally ventured down to the main floor.

Her father was already standing in the kitchen, darting back and forth from the fridge, stove and countertops between them. A mixing bowl with some scrambled eggs sat on the back of the stove with a potlid over them to keep them warm, a pan of sizzling bacon on a hot burner, her father tending to that while also buttering some toast that had popped out of the toaster just as she had walked in.

"Madainn mhath," she greeted her father.

"Ah, good morning, my darling," her father echoed back to her, stepping back to wrap an arm around her and kiss her temple.

"It smells wonderful," she told him.

"Thank you. It's just about done," he said, darting back to flip the bacon. "Why don't you set the table?"

"Tha, I can do that."

She crossed to the cupboard and pulled out two plates, setting them down and grabbing two sets of cutlery out of the correct drawer, bringing them into the adjoining dining room and setting them at their usual spots at the table. After setting them down, she returned to the kitchen and drew two glasses out and set them on the counter, crossing to the fridge and grabbing out a jug of orange juice.