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Today’s the day.
Outside a little cabin with small icicles dripping from the gutters and orange-glowing windows, the sun shines low in the sky. It floats, suspended just above the horizon in a blanket of pale purples and blues, curtained by fluffy wisps of cloud. Thin rays of golden light slip through the forest nearby, setting the snow-dusted pines alight like a field of glittering diamonds.
It’s as if the whole world knows just how important today is, invisible hands putting everything in place to make it absolutely perfect. And as the robins pick through the sloes in the garden, chirping their hellos to the new day, the chorus almost sounds like a promise.
Tommy is an exuberant ball of energy in the glass vestibule, bouncing on his heels in-between the porch and the hatstand, fidgeting with his sleeves, throwing his head this way and that while his dad fiddles with the last buttons on his coat.
“Stay still, Tommy.” The man sighs indulgently, tugging gently on his son’s fingers as they pick at a stray thread.
Tommy tears his eyes away from the outside to wriggle his hand free, puffing up his cheeks as he fails. “But it’s hard!”
His dad gives him a soft smile, taking Tommy’s face into one hand, swiping a thumb delicately over the bridge of his nose. Tommy practically melts into the touch, impatient huff slumping into a contented sigh. “I know it’s hard, mate,” Philza coos, watching Tommy’s eyelids droop at the familiar sound, “but you’re a big man now. You can do it.”
It seems to work.
As Philza’s hands drift down to the buttons again, Tommy’s eyes open wide, a determined set to his brow. He purses his lips, balling his hands into tiny fists, face flushing with the effort of keeping still, toes twisting in squeaky circles as buttons slowly click into place.
After what feels like forever – “There you go, all done.”
Tommy deflates with a big woosh of air before his dad can finish. “Finally,” he groans – or tries to, at least – but his eager little grin gives away his excitement, “now lemme go! I’m gonna be late!”
Philza laughs, decidedly not letting go, shifting slightly to alleviate the strain on his knees. “Alright, there’s just one more–”
“No!” Tommy cuts him off. As if to emphasise his point, he stomps his brand new trainers into the floor. There’s a brief flash of red and a gasp of surprise which quickly turns into a giggle of delight, budding tantrum forgotten as the boy turns his head to the floor. He marvels over the little lights, missing his dad’s wry smile.
“Dad, dad, look!”
“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Philza hums placatingly, taking advantage of his son’s inattention to velcro the lip of the coat’s hood into place, gaze trained on the bright boy before him. “It’s very cool.”
Tommy nods enthusiastically, and for all his eagerness he barely seems to notice as the man begins to stand. Philza’s joints creak unforgivingly as he straightens his back, settling a hand on his littlest’s shoulder. With just a second’s delay, the boy looks up at him, adorably confused and thoroughly distracted, eyes flicking down to his trainers as understanding dawns.
“Now,” Philza begins, tone shifting, and Tommy stands ramrod straight, “do you have your shoes?”
A small stomp; a red flash. “Yep!”
“Bag?”
Tommy wiggles his shoulders, jostling his cow print backpack and sending his keychains flying. “Yep!”
“Everything you need in the bag? Books? Lunchbox? Pencil case?”
Tommy pauses. Philza can almost see the checklist running through his head. “Yep!”
“What about your pen?”
This time the boy doesn’t hesitate, digging his hands into his pockets and pulling out a small clutter of items. “Here,” he chirps, thrusting them forward for inspection, “‘n I’ve got my whistle, too.”
Philza returns his cheer with an approving smile. “Perfect.”
With that Philza closes the door to the house and opens up the door to the garden, ushering Tommy outside, and they both squint as their eyes adjust to the light. It’s a testament to Tommy’s excitement that he doesn’t complain even once. Instead, he’s utterly enthralled by the garden, by the winding stepping-stone path to the gate and the gravel trail beyond, heart fluttering in his throat.
Somehow, despite living here all his life, today the world looked different. Special. Other. The gateway to a whole new… everything.
“One last thing,” Philza says, slowing as he slips his phone from his pocket. Tommy keeps walking, hopping down the steps, frozen grass and half-melted snow crunching underfoot. “What’s the password?”
A raspy caw calls from the treeline. Tommy beams, whirling around on his heels. A camera shutters. “Crowfather!”
Tommy realises what exactly that sound means just a second too late. His dad cackles unrepentantly as Tommy tries to bat at his phone, begging to see the picture before it’s sent off to the family chat, only managing to snag a peek once they arrive at the front gate.
He looks–
…is that really him?
“Of course it is,” his dad murmurs, tugging Tommy close for a quick side-hug, letting the message send with a vwooping ping. The replies are immediate: well-wishes from the two eldest and his wife, filling Philza’s screen with affection and encouragement. The screen disappears into his trousers as Tommy’s eyes glimmer with tears. “What’s wrong, sunsprite?”
Tommy doesn’t answer for a moment. Then – “I look so fucking badass.”
He’s sent through the gate with a gentle shove and a disbelieving snort. “Don’t let your mum hear you say that,” he chides. Tommy grins up at him from the gravel path, chest puffed out, chin tipped high into the air.
“What?” the boy teases, already starting to walk off, “fucking? Fuck fuck fuck–”
“Little shit,” Philza mutters, helpless to fight off the smile curling his lips. “Have fun at school!”
Tommy laughs, spinning about so fast that Philza’s heart leaps. But while the boy does wobble, he doesn’t fall, casting his arms out at his sides to keep his balance. “Will do!” he calls, “See ya!”
The path stretches out before Tommy, shadowed by curling trees and streaked with sunlight, pale clouds of dragon’s breath pluming from his nose with every breath he takes. He sneaks glances over his shoulder every few paces, his dad’s figure growing smaller and smaller each time he does, until the man disappears into the trees.
Usually his dad would be right beside him, linking their hands or timing Tommy as he raced ahead. When his mum’s home, they both walk on either side of him, lifting him up into the air together like a swing. When his brothers are home it’s a mix of the two, races and hand-holding and swinging every few paces.
Joy, anticipation and niggling dread intertwine in Tommy’s stomach as he faces forward – properly forward – for the first time, alone, with only crunching gravel and birdsong as his company.
It’s kind of lonely, to be honest.
Tommy furrows his brows in determination, shoving his hands into his pockets to feel for the whistle. His fingers run over the pen, a clicky one with a long nib, and a torch so bright that when Tommy tested it, he was blinking spots out of his eyes for ages. Feeling over the smooth plastic and textured metal soothes something in him, and he takes a deep breath.
He’s a big man. The biggest man ever, in fact. He’s already ten years old, practically an adult already, and this is his chance to prove himself. No matter how long the seconds stretch, the bus stop isn’t far – just a hop, skip and a jump from home, really – and when he reaches it, that’s it. The first step, over. The first of many.
And then he’ll finally be big enough to see where his brothers go during the week.
His smile returns at the thought, every bit as strong as before, and his next step crashes into the ground with a big splash of gravel.
Yes. He just needs to remember what his dad said, and he’ll be fine. More than fine. He’ll show them he’s not a baby. He’s responsible. And big. And tough.
He’ll prove his dad right for trusting him.
Deer and foxes rustle the bushes as he walks, twigs snapping under their hooves and paws, and as the sun slowly warms the air small clumps of snow fall from the branches overhead to thump against the road. With his dad, Tommy had never noticed anything like this, too busy chatting away about this and that and every other thing he could possibly think of.
The first time it happens, he shrieks, jumping so high it was like he was floating. He skitters back, eyes wide, heart thumping in his throat, fingers clasped desperately tight onto the lifelines tucked into his pockets. But nothing happens. Birds chirp and Tommy remains alone, not a single soul in sight.
He takes a moment to breathe; to let his heart settle back behind his ribs. The path feels so much longer, now. Wider. Emptier. The trees loom over him, startlingly unfamiliar, and low-hanging branches seem to creep closer with every stray gust of wind. Reaching.
The pen nib digs painfully into his palm. He must have clicked it at some point, and Tommy winces as he pulls his hand out to inspect the damage. His breath hitches as red comes into view; his eyes burn threateningly. But it’s wobbly. Faint in some places, dark in others, and it’s– it’s ink. It’s pen ink.
A choir of crows chuckle, hidden somewhere in the trees, and Tommy’s ears burn. He stuffs his hand back into his pocket with a small noise, mindfully clicking the pen off as he does. A deep breath. Another one. Then, as if to knock the rest of his fear into submission, he shakes his head vigorously from side to side.
It kind of works.
After that, while they still make him pause, the forest’s noises are… comforting, in a way.
His back itches like he’s being watched, but if he closes his eyes and tries really hard, he can almost pretend his dad is right behind him, ready to catch him if he falls. Ready to whisk him home again with a hot chocolate and blankets. Ready to cuddle up on the couch and set Tommy on his lap, making his voice all serious while he tells school they were snowed in again, pulling the funniest faces ever with his finger pressed against his lips until Tommy’s red-in-the-face from holding in his laughter.
It’s memories like that that help Tommy settle again, keeping him focussed as he walks the rest of the way to the bus.
The trees begin to thin as the path widens into a broad curve, revealing the neighbours. Tiny two-storey cottages start peeking out from behind their hedge walls and leafless aspens. Tommy picks up the pace; the world follows suit.
One of his neighbours must wake up, because he hears another pair of footsteps join him along the gravel. Tommy pays them no mind, racing faster and faster as the roof of the bus stop comes into view – and the bus! He can recognise that red sheen anywhere!
That joy quickly turns into terror, however, as he hears the unmistakable hiss of the bus closing its doors.
Tommy belts it down the path, stumbling over larger stones and leaving his maybe-neighbour in the dust, waving his arms frantically for the bus driver to slow down. He can see their face. A gruff old woman. He doesn’t recognise her but he waves even harder as her head turns toward him.
It happens in slow motion.
His trainers catch on a rock; he’s running too fast to stop himself. He falls.
By the time he looks up again, palms skinned, heart in his mouth, cheeks burning, he’s just in time to see the tail of the bus disappearing around the corner. His stomach drops.
He’s been left behind by a bus before, it isn’t exactly new. But it’s the first time he’s been left behind without his dad there to help. Tommy’s at a loss for words, staring blankly at the winding road and the fields beyond, watching the red rectangle dip and rise over the small hills as it makes its way out of the valley.
Without him.
Gravel crunches softly behind him as his maybe-neighbour approaches. Tommy ducks his head. He failed. His dad trusted him to get to school by himself, and he failed.
The crunching stops.
“Hey, mate,” a familiar voice sounds from above his head, and Tommy’s eyes water. His shoulders shake. He doesn’t even think to ask about the when, the where, the how – all he can feel is pure, undeniable relief.
“Dad,” he whimpers, reaching up blindly, feeling every bit the ten-year-old he is.
His dad wastes no time, taking Tommy up by the shoulders and grunting a little as he settles the boy on his hip, holding him close. They start moving immediately, away from the bus stop, away from the road, away from the bus, and Tommy pushes his face into his dad’s chest, balling up the man’s shirt into his fists.
Small circles work into his spine as another tear slips, Philza’s hold tightening when, in lieu of a sob, a keen strings itself through Tommy’s teeth. They keep walking, passing the neighbours’ houses into the sheltered part of the path. All the while his dad hums warm, sweet nothings into his hair.
“It’s okay, Tommy,” he murmurs, “shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re okay.” Tommy pushes closer. The grazes on his palms and knees smart a little at the movement, but they’re easy to ignore.
“Dad, I–”
His dad interrupts him with yet more murmurs. It’s the same thing over and over again: a mantra, a charm, a promise. So many wonderful, loving things wrapped up into one phrase, repeated until the words work themselves through Tommy’s distress. He quietens. Only then does his dad stop, slowing his pace as the house comes into view.
Funny, it had seemed like such a long journey when he was alone.
“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” his dad replies.
“But I… I didn’t– the bus left!”
“Alright.”
He didn’t get it.
Tommy feels a well of frustration begin to rise and he tries to shove himself away, only to be held even closer than before. His frustrations melt into more tears, slipping down his cheeks in silent streaks.
“It’s okay, Toms.”
“It isn’t–”
“Do you want to know why it’s okay?”
His dad pauses his steps. Tommy can hear the familiar sound of the front gate creaking, latch clunking clumsily as it closes again.
“...why?”
“Because it wasn’t your fault. You did your best.” Philza doesn’t give him enough time to retort, already far too used to this song and dance. His tone remains soft and gentle, loving, soothing, as he reassures his son. “And now I’m going to wrap you up in blankets, throw you onto the couch, and we’re going to watch Up.”
Tommy brightens despite himself, sniffling. He mumbles something quietly as Philza unlocks the front doors, slipping Tommy’s shoes off and carefully setting them on the shoe rack before stepping inside the house.
“Say again, mate?”
Tommy repeats himself, a little louder. “Can I have a hot chocolate, too?” he asks, and if Philza wasn’t already planning to do so, the big blue eyes looking up at him would have quickly changed his mind. He leans forward, bumping their foreheads together and circling Tommy’s tiny nose with his own. Tommy’s eyes cross.
Philza smiles indulgently. “Of course, Toms. Now come on–” he sets the boy down, stifling a chuckle at the half-hearted whine of complaint– “I can’t remember where your brothers keep the remote.”
The complaints stop, a tentative smirk forming on his youngest’s face. “Old,” he jeers under his breath.
Philza clutches his heart dramatically, in a way Wilbur would have been proud of. Tommy giggles, already darting off.
“Little shit!” his dad calls out after him, and more laughter peals from the living room.
Philza makes a mental note to call Tommy’s school as he enters the kitchen, swiping the first aid kit from the sink cabinet and setting it on the counter before turning to the fridge. In short order a milk-filled saucepan is settled on the hob, simmering gently while the man begins chopping up some chocolate.
“Found it!” Tommy cries.
“Good job,” Philza replies, “I’ll be there in a moment!”
“‘Kay!”
The man flicks his gaze outside, toward the crows peering through the window and the small icicles dripping from the gutters.
Too much snow, he decides.