𝒜𝐹𝒯𝐸𝑅 𝒴𝒪𝒰

1 | Yale

1 9 8 3

In the Netherlands, spring unfolds like a watercolor masterpiece, painting the iconic landscapes with a vibrant palette of colors. Keukenhof—the famous flower garden, becomes a floral haven where millions of tulips are showcased in a splendor. Bicycles meander through cobbled streets adorned with blooming trees, and outdoor cafes brim with people savoring the first warmth of the season.

And yet I didn't know what I was doing in Connecticut.

In the cold, devoid, deprived airport; standing concretely against the detached air. The VIP areas were discreet, with dimmed lights casting a subtle glow on plush seating. Security personnel, inconspicuous yet ever-watchful, blended seamlessly into the surroundings. Every move seemed monitored, and the hushed tones amplified the sense of exclusivity.

My mind wasn't comprehending. It is as if I have been thrust into a phenomena, looping between realities.

Suddenly I realised why we were still not up.
The driver was late—thirteen minutes.
My father was never the one to make it a big deal, even after alot of urging—or maybe it was his persona. It seemed the driver was waiting for us to come out instead.

As the car finally arrived, my father's gaze bore into the driver as he approached. The air seemed tight with an implicit tension, his scrutiny carrying an unyielding weight that transcended mere observation. 

Thirteen minutes wasn't much. But it was enough to make an impression on Dad.

The driver, sensing the weight of my father's silent scrutiny, hesitated momentarily before entering the car. There was a palpable tension enveloping. My father's demeanor, devoid of words or visible anger, alone emitted the aura of coercion.

Getting inside, I couldn't care more. Dropping my head on the back of the driver's seat, I suddenly heard my father after a long silence — "I have seen you before. What was it—your name?"

"Dominic."

"Full name boy."

"I.am.Dominic Grey." His voice was harsh, cutting through the tense air.

"Your father was Michael Grey, who got hung last week, no?" My father's words cut through the air, making me to lift my head abruptly.

Suddenly I saw the driver raising his eyes to look at my father–which people could barely do. Oddly something flashed in his gaze.
In the side mirror, his countenance revealed a stoic demeanor—grim, jaw-clenched, disheveled hair, and vacant eyes. It seemed as though he had survived sleepless nights, yet his expression betrayed neither sadness nor anger. My father's words appeared to be inconsequential to him. However, a sigh escaped him, and for a fleeting moment, the facade wavered.

"Yes."

The silence held volumes, and the unease in the air lingered like a tacit threat. The driver, though not explicitly addressed, felt the weight of my father's presence—a presence that rendered the atmosphere thick with an unspoken intensity.

"How old are you?" My father grimly quest.

"Twenty-one."

I wanted to ask, but considering it involved one's father's death just a week back–it looked so insensitive to me. Clearing my throat, I signed Dad to calm down.

Rather, my eyes briefly collided with the driver.

Arriving in Greenwich, as our guard opened the door for Dad, the driver held out the door for me— it was the first time I looked at him without any hesitancy, and at that moment, it felt—strange. So strange!