The sun was setting over Asterión City, splitting the light into seven colors that Thomas counted in silence: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Always the same order, as if the sunset were following a script.
Sitting on the wooden bench in front of the store, he opened Childhood's End. The spine was cracked, the cover faded, but it was his old man's book.
From inside the store came a shout:
—Toto!
Thomas slammed the book shut and stood up.
Robert was waiting behind the counter, two meters of muscle and a wide grin, holding a small bag that looked tiny in his huge hands.
—Last delivery before you run off, Toto.
—I already told you I don't like you calling me that.
Robert let out a laugh that made the glass windows vibrate.
—Sorry, sorry… Toto.
Thomas took the bag with a martyr's expression. Robert leaned over the counter.
—You gotta live a little, kid. Friends. A girlfriend. Something.
From the back of the store appeared Sunny. Golden braids, clear eyes, seventeen years of arrogance and a dangerous smile.
—Thomas is a nerd, Dad. Accept it. Nerds don't have girlfriends.
Thomas gave her a crooked smile. She returned it exactly the same. Whenever Sunny got too close, his face would heat up like he'd stuck his head in an oven.
—I prefer the worlds in books —he said, tucking the copy away—. They're more honest.
He stepped outside, dropped the bag into the bike basket, and was about to pedal off when Sunny came running out and planted herself in front of him with that conspiratorial smile he knew too well.
—No way —Thomas said before she could speak.
Sunny tilted her head, eyes narrowed. She looked like a villain plotting something wicked.
—Please, Thomas… take me with you.
It was impossible to say no to her.
—Get on.
They rode through the center with the wind in their faces. Sunny opened her arms behind him, laughing like she was flying. Neon lights flickered on one by one. Thomas pedaled and felt something warm and stupid bloom in his chest. In those minutes she stopped being the cold girl from the store and became something else.
The center faded behind them. Night fell suddenly.
—Where are we? —Sunny asked, her voice lower now.
—It's the address your dad sent.
The neighborhood changed: neon gave way to dirty yellow streetlamps and the smell of sewage. They got off the bike.
Suddenly Sunny said:
—All that hate you have for the world… does it have something to do with your old man?
The question hit like a knife. Thomas went still. Just then he saw the house number.
—This is it.
They rang the doorbell. One. Two. Three minutes.
Sunny lit a cigarette.
—I told you not to smoke.
—You're not my father.
The smoke drifted out slowly. Too slowly. It formed a perfect spiral, gray and bright, hanging in the air as if the wind had taken a break.
Thomas looked at it. First unwillingly. Then unable to look away.
The spiral didn't dissolve.
—Sunny…
She was staring at it too.
Thomas waved his hand in front of it. Nothing. The smoke didn't move.
Then came the other feeling: the street was empty. Not just of people —empty of everything. The streetlamps were still on, but the light seemed fixed, posing for a photograph no one would ever take.
Sunny dropped the cigarette. It took far too long to hit the ground.
—This can't be —Thomas muttered.
—No —she said softly—. Not even ten years have passed.
And then, from somewhere that didn't quite belong to that street, the sirens began to wail.