Immortal Memory (Iris' Atlantis 1)

21: Little One

Mimosa

After an hour long call, I closed the phone, put it to mute and closed my eyes for a moment. Aunt Chime had called me about a printer that was apparently dysfunctional. After some twenty minutes of trouble shooting, it had become obvious she had erroneously plugged a cable while cleaning.

The cable had been easy enough to plug back in. But then the whole device had required a reboot. And the next paper didn't come right out from the printer.

And all the while aunt Chime had been insisting that I had used to solve the issues faster. On top of it, she had asked if I still wanted those cookies she made.

And I knew I had never before had to troubleshoot her technology issues. The effort had drained me dry. And I really wasn't a fan of her odd honey and cinnamon cookies that stuck to the roof of your mouth when they were fresh and tasted of ginger bread once they got old. I really disliked those cookies and had managed to evade even tasting them during family Christmases... Except the latest one. Everyone had to take a few. And mother had later offered some to the neighbors as well once Chime had returned to her home in the capital.

I was starting to get more and more convinced that something odd was going on. I had tried praying to God to explain to me the uncanny feeling. The little misplaced details.

But all I got was a haunting dream of one of His angels standing guard at the front door of our old house, warning me from entering. She wore Valentina's face. Behind her the house seemed to tower and it twisted into an old haunted castle. And the angel's gown was tinted black, the color spreading like ink up from the hem.

I opened my eyes to the ceiling.

The house was somehow at the root of all of this. Everything odd had started there.

I lifted my phone up and opened a chat application. Just a few days before the accident I had sent a message in a chat. It hadn't been a lively chat, but consistent and old. The number was saved in my phone as Little One.

Last month I had gotten finally enough and had tried to call the number, but it was disconnected. I had tried again last week with the same result. Little One had obviously either changed numbers or they didn't keep their phone on very often.

"Who are you?" I asked the ceiling.

It didn't answer. And I felt it wouldn't. In that sense the dream was clear.

God wouldn't answer me, it wasn't in His interests to do so. Our old house was part of something that didn't form part of His kingdom.

I should have left the thought alone and accepted that it was His will for me to live in ignorance.

But I couldn't leave it.

I had seen Mum clearing cheerfully away pictures with a boy in them. I was in some of those pictures also. And the boy was clearly younger than I was, he was not a friend. He was part of the mystery.

He could have been the Little One of my address book.

And mother hadn't seemed at all troubled by it. She had just taken them out of sight in a sudden gust of reorganization energy.

But I had seen dad's eyes follow thoughtfully the little box destined to the basement.

He had been troubled by the changes as well, though he hadn't said anything.

Half a year had passed since the accident, and I still couldn't lay down the case. And it wasn't because of some troublesome phone calls from Aunt Chime.