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It was a good day. Then again, almost every day had been good since they'd moved to Australia.
November was drawing to a close, and back in London, the days were growing shorter and colder. But for Wendell, English summer had given way directly to Australian spring. Each day the sun blazed a little brighter, and the ocean, though not quite warmed up yet, beckoned him and his wife to the beach. Wendell would stand waist-deep in the water for ages, gathering the courage to dive in headfirst while pretending he wasn't cold in the slightest. Afterward, laughing, he would coax Monica to do the same.
Not even the bathroom scales could ruin his mood today, despite the reminder that he'd gained a couple of pounds over the past few months. Monica jokingly blamed the double helpings of waffles, but Mr. Wilkins had no intention of abandoning a years-long tradition.
Back in England, when local strawberries appeared in the shops each summer, every morning in the Wilkins household began with a stack of crisp, warm waffles. Wendell baked them himself, smothering them in whipped cream and topping them with fresh, sweet berries. For as long as he could remember, he'd always made three servings: one for his wife, one for himself, and a third... also for himself, because really, was there such a thing as too many waffles? But looking at the scale, he had to admit he wasn't getting any younger, and what used to vanish without a trace now settled stubbornly around his waist.
The move had gone smoothly. Suspiciously smoothly, in fact. Every so often a nagging feeling crept over Wendell that they'd forgotten something important back home. He'd open drawers, rummage through their belongings again, and ultimately reassure himself that sometimes, life just gives you a lucky streak.
Sometimes chasing a dream means fighting fate, clearing one obstacle after another, enduring setbacks, and starting over from scratch. But Wendell's grandmother had always seen it differently. She used to say that when you find something that's truly yours—your path, or your person—everything falls into place easily, almost on its own. Wendell was inclined to agree with her now. Waking each morning to sunlight streaming through the window, he couldn't understand why he and Monica had waited so long. It felt as if the dream had always been within reach, waiting only for them to stretch out a hand and take it.
They'd become proud holders of Australian visas in a matter of days. No one had asked them a single question, or even requested extra paperwork. It was rare, almost unheard of, given that colleagues of theirs had waited months for a verdict. Monica had stood by the mailbox for a long time, hesitant to open the letter from the embassy, unable to believe her eyes.
"And they say magic doesn't exist," she laughed happily, scanning the pages.
Their luck hadn't stopped there. Buyers for the house turned up almost instantly, and Wendell took great pleasure in watching the number in their bank account grow. It didn't stay there long. Within a few weeks, he and Monica were signing the contract on a cottage in a quiet Sydney suburb, just a short walk from the beach.
"The owners did a full renovation two years ago," a young woman with a thick folder of documents told them as she unlocked the door to their future home. "It's a nice, safe neighborhood, and a Woolworths is opening nearby this summer. Do you have children?"
Monica shook her head.
"Then that won't concern you," the real estate agent continued, looking visibly relieved. "The good schools are a bit far from here; you'd have to drive."
With kids, Wendell thought, they never could have just packed up and moved on a whim, with two suitcases to the other side of the world.
Fortune had favored them every step of the way, but the new owners of their London house hadn't been nearly as lucky.
They'd barely finished moving their things in when, in the dead of night, the neighbors woke to the wail of fire truck sirens and the smell of smoke. Mr. Collins, who had a habit of jolting awake at the smallest noise, had woken even earlier. He was the one who told Wendell that, just minutes before the fire broke out, he'd seen strange people in odd robes entering the house. However, the police, though they'd arrived quickly, hadn't caught anyone. The information came at a price.
"...Back under the old government, you didn't get this kind of riffraff wandering around," Mr. Collins had been complaining for a good ten minutes already. He didn't seem to expect an answer, quite content with Mr. Wilkins's occasional neutral grunt of acknowledgment. "And then the new lot got in, and it all started. In August, hooligans keyed my car, and now cultists set your house on fire. They've only been in power for six months—what's next? We'll have to lock every window at night soon!"
Wendell agreed with Mr. Collins on one point—not long ago, none of this would have seemed possible. Just a couple of years back, the biggest crime of the year had been a neighbor's stolen bicycle.
"At least the house was insured," Monica said, shaking her head sympathetically. But Wendell could see in her eyes the very same relief he felt himself.
Something was off across all of Britain. Strange, seemingly unconnected incidents had been piling up over the past two years. Collapses, explosions, mysterious disappearances—all of it stayed on the other side of the ocean, while here the waves rolled in and the sun kept shining. And yet every evening, driven by some inexplicable unease, Mr. Wilkins dutifully switched on the BBC evening news and stared fixedly at the screen.
Today, there was another reason for worry: Wendell had nearly been late for his meeting with the owner of a dental clinic. The culprit was a pair of trousers. Or rather, the long ginger fur clinging to the dark blue fabric.
"The cat must've been sitting on them," Monica guessed. "We didn't get around to washing them before we left."
"The cat?" Wendell echoed, frowning as he hurried to brush the fur off.
"You know, the fluffy one," his wife clarified, "with the flat face? Used to come round sometimes in the summer... the neighbors', I think."
He couldn't for the life of him recall any ginger neighborhood cat—his mind had been entirely occupied with packing. With a movement that was already becoming second nature, Mr. Wilkins shook out his shoe, and out of it—just as habitually—tumbled a plump spider the size of his palm, plopping onto the floor with a disgruntled thud.
He arrived at the clinic with only a couple of minutes to spare, but the rest of the meeting went smoothly, and an hour later he left the building with the solid feeling that the contract was as good as his.
Now, he and Monica sat on the veranda with bowls of ice cream in hand. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and life felt wonderful. The air had turned cool and fresh, a light breeze drifted in off the ocean, and from the street came the voices of children playing on the lawn.
"I'm Darth Vader!" a girl with curly brown hair shouted, waving a branch she'd broken off a tree.
A vague memory stirred in the depths of Wendell's mind, fading before it could quite take shape.
"No, I'm Darth Vader!"
"No, I am!"
"You can't be Darth Vader, you're a girl," her friend objected, sounding slighted.
"Tell that to my lightsaber!"
Wendell smiled. The old movies had been re-released at the beginning of the year and seemed to be popular with kids all over again. It was hard to believe he had watched them for the first time twenty years ago. Had time really flown by so fast?
The laughter and shouting drifted away and faded around the corner. Mr. Wilkins thoughtfully set his empty bowl on the table and turned to his wife.
"Do you ever regret not having children?"