Finding Finn Reed

XVIII

I had to go through another series of doors in order to get back to the small boy who was waiting for my return. When I finally got there, he was in my room, sleeping. He seemed to blend gracefully into the surroundings. His red rosy cheeks had complimented the light pink wallpaper I had. Despite how tranquil his face was, his small body was another deal of sorts. His arms appeared to have been flailed around before resting, and his legs were completely twisted against each other, making it look like a contradicting situation. Waking him up felt wrong, so I let him rest until he was ready to wake up. In the meanwhile, I decided to saunter through the old house.

I remembered how angry I was when my parents bought the house. I was about five, and anything before that age was a complete blank blur. For some reason or another, I wasn't too keen on moving into a new house. The idea of change didn't exactly flow with me. After about a couple years in the new house, I began to grow attached to the old wooden structure. When my father was out collecting his findings, it was up to me to create my own fun. I remember the small games I used to play, in order to keep myself entertained until my father returned. One particular game I played was called 'Keep a note, pass it on'. The idea was, you write down small notes on a piece of paper, and scatter them everywhere. In a couple of hours, you were able to find them, and write a reply. The game worked better with more people, but considering it was only me, I had no choice but to improvise. My mother would always scold me for leaving notes all around the house. Before I moved out, I had written dozens of notes and scattered them all over the house in hopes that one day I'd be able to come back and reply to them.

I noticed an absence of dust around the house. It was as though someone had kept the house tidy this whole time. Or it could have been that the house was a fake, just like the countless dream scenarios I had painted for myself. Regardless, I treated it as though it were real. To me, everything looked so real, so vivid. Part of me was ready to drop to my knees and start crying. There was always going to be a part of me that missed the old house, along with my parents. There was always a system, and I appreciated it as a child. In the early mornings, I'd wake up and play with my endless mountains of toys. At noon, I'd get dressed and see my father off for the day. Before he'd leave, he'd pat me on the head, and smile. It was the best feeling in the world knowing that he'd come back with something new everyday. As I waited for his return, I found new games to play by myself. My mother would always be tending to her garden, or reading books on how to keep a garden alive. As night approached, I'd always wait in my fathers shack with sweet bread to share. When my father came home, we'd laugh about the astonishing stories about far away lands, and he'd always have wise story to tell with a moral ending. For years, the pattern continued, and I always looked forward to seeing my father walk along the dirt trail that always led back home.

I had roamed the house for what seemed like hours. I began to think of Atticus, and whether or not he was still waiting for me. I walked into my room to check on the little boy, but he wasn't in my bed anymore. I searched every room and every corner, but the little mysterious boy was nowhere to be found. I would have called out for the little boys name, if only I had known it. "Little boy, where are you? Where did you go?" I shouted as I checked the entire house for him. But every time I called out for him, I'd get nothing but silence in return.

I took a deep breath, and walked into the living room. I stood in the middle of the room, hopelessly lost in thought. Suddenly, I turned to look out the window, and noticed a light coming through my fathers old shack. I quickly opened the door that led outside, and ran towards the lit shack. I'm not sure why, but as soon as I opened the shack's door, I called out for my father. "Dad, you're back!" I said with a widened smile. However, upon seeing that it was the little boy, my smile slowly died down. The boy looked at me with question. "I'm sorry, force of habit" I awkwardly explained. "I like it in here," the little boy said, "What is this?" I smiled, and walked over to the boy, placing my hand on his shoulder. "My father used this place to store all of his findings, he was very much set on the idea of saving the past," I replied, "It was very important to him." The boy looked around some more, and took in all the amazement that was my father's findings. "What makes the past so important, it's not like you can change it" the boy said. I was suddenly taken back to the time I had asked my father the exact same thing. The sureness in my fathers eyes when he explained to me was convincing enough to make me stop asking so many questions. "You know, I used to wonder the exact same thing" I said. "Why'd you stop?" the little boy asked. "Sometimes it's just best to let things remain as they already are" I replied. The little boy walked up to me, and stared into my eyes. "Accept what you cannot change, have the courage to change the things you can, and have the wisdom to know the difference" he softly whispered. My eyes slowly widened at the beautiful words. "How did you-" the little boy held up a small piece of folded up paper, and handed it to me.