perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

A Retreat in Time • Part One

"There is no sadder sight than a young pessimist."
-Mark Twain, 1835-1910

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A/N: There is a trigger warning for the entire 'A Retreat in Time' series regarding mentions of substance abuse that some characters experiences.

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She flicked through the channels, feeling the ache in her finger joints after continuously pressing the button.

There was a ping on her laptop. She quickly put the remote control down and pulled the device onto her lap. "Come on," she whispered.

The door clicked open, and Ophelia glanced up before back down at the screen. "You're just in time.." she narrowed her eyes, scrolling down the email and eagerly reading each word.

He walked in with a smile, placing the carrier bags in his hand down and walking up behind Ophelia who sat on the couch. He grasped her shoulder excitedly. "Did you get the job?"

She gasped gently and paused as she read the screen. "I got the job! I got the job at the hospital! This.. Is good," she breathed a laugh. "I can finally get the experience I need."

"Ah, yes! My daughter's becoming a doctor. Much better than a musician. Unless my pieces can magically cure people." Lawrence laughed, patting her on the shoulder before pulling away. "I suppose this was a good day to bring takeaway home to celebrate, have a drink,"

"Did you actually?" Ophelia flicked the wet hair off her shoulders and turned around to face her father with a smile.

"Of course.." he smirked. he picked up a plastic bag and pulled out two containers of food with a nonsensical dance move. "My senses told me you got the job."

"Okay." she laughed and stood up, glancing at the other bag.

"This doesn't mean you'll be moving away, does it?" Lawrence gasped, as if only realising what would happen.

"No," Ophelia couldn't help but chuckle with a frown. "How could I. Anything that I need to put away?"

"No." Lawrence cleared his throat, taking the plastic bag from her grasp. "Contract stuff.. files for other performances."

She gave a small smile, wringing her fingers with each other.

They sat in front of the TV, eating from their plates in a comfortable silence. Ophelia pushed the food on her plate with a fork, gazing at the screen. "Contract for what?"

"Hm?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on the TV.

"Earlier, you.." Ophelia pushed food into her mouth. "Nothing. What piece did you play today?"

"Sonata, with piano."

"Oh, you had the orchestra too. At the Mill?"

"Mhm," Lawrence scrunched up his face. "Your mother loves it."

It had been six years since the death of Evelyn Smith. The world had so far moved on from the tragic 'recently widowed musician'. Of course, a man and his daughter were in need of a wife and mother, but the Earth still had to spin.

"Well perhaps because it's a nice piece.." Ophelia mused. "Or it's the fact that she's also French and reminds her of her childhood,"

"Does it make your French blood tingle?" he chuckled.

"Oh of course, all thirty percent of it."

They laughed.

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