Chapter 224: The Things We Choose to Keep

The wooden airplane was missing one wheel by breakfast. Eden discovered this when the younger version of himself came into the kitchen holding the toy upside down, wearing the unmistakable expression of someone who had already decided the damage wasn’t his fault.

"Before you say anything," the boy began, "it came off by itself."

Eden stared at him. "Did it?"

"Yes."

"While you were sleeping?"

The boy hesitated. "Maybe."

Luna, who was pouring coffee, turned her face toward the window, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Eden took the airplane and examined the tiny wooden body. The wheel had come loose cleanly, which meant it could probably be repaired with a little glue. Nothing serious, really. Still, he looked at the boy with appropriate disappointment.

"I bought you one thing."

"And it’s still a plane."

"That’s your defense?"

"It can still fly."

"It has one wheel."

"Planes don’t need wheels in the sky."

Eden opened his mouth, then closed it again. Luna set down her coffee. "He’s got you there."

"I live in a house full of traitors."

The boy grinned and climbed into his chair, apparently satisfied that justice had been served. Eden placed the airplane beside his plate, deciding he would repair it later. There was something comforting about knowing that a broken thing didn’t always need to become a tragedy. Sometimes it needed glue, patience, and someone willing to sit down long enough to fix it.

He was still thinking about that when Aria arrived, carrying a paper bag and wearing the expression of someone who had made a decision without consulting anybody.

"I have an idea," she announced.

Eden looked up. "Should I be worried?"

"Probably."

"Excellent. At least you’re honest."

She placed the bag on the table and pulled out several notebooks, a pack of colored pencils, and a small box of markers. The boy leaned forward, immediately curious.

"What’s that?"

"An activity."

His expression soured. "What kind of activity?"

"An artistic one."

"I’m bad at drawing."

"So am I," Aria said. "That makes two of us."

Eden examined the supplies. "And what exactly are we supposed to draw?"

"Something we want to keep."

The words were simple, but they quieted the table. Aria seemed to notice the change in atmosphere. She glanced at Eden, then at Luna, and softened her tone.

"Not memories of things we’ve lost. Not things we wish we could bring back. Just something we want to keep with us."

The boy considered this for a moment. "Can I draw the airplane?"

"Of course."

"Even though it’s broken?"

"Especially because it’s broken."

Eden watched Aria open the notebooks and distribute them. She hadn’t planned an elaborate exercise or attached some grand lesson to it. She had simply brought paper and pencils into a room where they were all still learning how to live with the past. For once, Eden decided not to question her intentions and picked up a pencil.

"Fine. But if anyone asks, I was forced to participate."

"You’re thirty-seven years old," Aria said.

"I’m being oppressed by my own family. Age doesn’t protect me."

"Draw your oppression, then."

Eden looked at the blank page. For several minutes, nobody spoke. The boy worked carefully on his airplane, occasionally asking Aria how to draw a straight line, while Luna sketched something near the bottom of her page, shielding it from Eden whenever he tried to peek.

Eden drew a door.

He didn’t realize what he was doing until the outline was finished. It was an ordinary door, with a handle on the right and a small shadow beneath it. There was no white space surrounding it, no strange writing on its surface, and no voice waiting on the other side. He stared at the drawing for a moment before slowly adding a window beside it. Beyond the window, he drew a tree, a patch of grass, and a little crooked path leading toward the street.

He didn’t draw what lay beyond the door.

He drew the home around it.

"Finished?" Luna asked.

"Not quite."

Eden added a small figure standing in the doorway, then another behind it and another sitting on the floor nearby. They weren’t detailed. Their faces were little more than marks, and the proportions were terrible, but they were there. He set down the pencil.

"I think that’s it."

Luna leaned over to look. Her expression grew thoughtful, but she didn’t ask him why he’d drawn a door. Instead, she showed him her own picture. It was a small kitchen with a table near the window. Four chairs surrounded it, though one had been pulled slightly away from the others. On the table sat a plate of food, a cup, and what appeared to be a deeply unfortunate loaf of bread.

Eden pointed at it. "Is that supposed to be my breakfast?"

"It’s a representation of your cooking."

"That’s cruel."

"It’s accurate."

He looked at the drawing again. "You gave me a very small head."

"I was being generous."

Aria burst out laughing, and the sound quickly filled the kitchen. For the next half hour, they compared their pictures. Aria had drawn a collection of little things: a book with folded corners, a pair of shoes by the front door, and a hand holding another hand. The boy’s airplane occupied nearly the entire page, complete with a missing wheel and an enormous sun in the corner. He seemed especially proud of the sun.

"It’s bigger than the plane," Eden observed.

"It’s important."

"Why?"

"Because it’s sunny."

Eden nodded. "Solid reasoning."

When they were finished, Aria gathered the drawings and placed them in a neat stack.

"I’m keeping these."

"Why?" the boy asked.

"Because I like them."

"What if we don’t like them later?"

"Then we’ll draw new ones."

The boy appeared to consider this possibility seriously before agreeing. Eden watched Aria slip the papers into a folder. She didn’t promise to protect them forever or insist that they would remain meaningful for the rest of their lives. She simply wanted to keep them because they mattered to her now. He wondered when he had forgotten that something could be precious without needing to be permanent.

That afternoon, Eden took the broken airplane to the small desk near the living room window. He found a bottle of glue in a drawer, cleaned the detached wheel, and carefully pressed it back into place. The work required more concentration than he’d expected. His fingers were too large for the tiny parts, and the glue seemed determined to stick to everything except the wood.

After ten minutes, he leaned back and inspected his progress. The wheel was crooked.

He tried again.

Behind him, the younger Eden climbed onto the sofa and watched in silence.

"Is it going to work?" the boy asked.

"Probably."

"What if it doesn’t?"

"Then I’ll try again."

The boy looked at the airplane. "What if you can’t fix it?"

Eden turned the toy between his fingers. "Then we’ll figure out what to do with it."

The boy was quiet for a moment before asking, "You don’t have to fix everything, do you?"

The question caught Eden off guard. He looked at the little wooden plane, at the glue drying along the wheel, and at the boy sitting on the sofa with his knees tucked beneath him.

"No," Eden said. "I don’t."

The boy nodded, as though the answer had relieved him of a responsibility he hadn’t known he was carrying. Eden finished repairing the wheel and placed the airplane on the desk. It wasn’t perfect. One wing had a faint scratch, and the repaired wheel sat at a slightly awkward angle, but it stood on its own. He slid it across the desk, and it rolled forward a few inches before stopping.

The boy smiled. "See? It works."

"Barely."

"Still works."

Eden looked at him and laughed softly. "Yes. It still works."

That evening, after everyone else had gone to bed, Eden returned to the living room. The drawings were still on the desk, waiting to be put away. He picked up his own and studied it beneath the small lamp. The door in the picture no longer bothered him.

He knew there would always be questions he couldn’t answer. There would be memories that returned when he least expected them, and days when he would find himself searching for meaning in things that might have none. He wasn’t suddenly free of his past simply because he’d learned to live beside it. But the drawing reminded him that a door could belong to a home. It didn’t have to lead to another world.

He placed the picture in the folder with the others, then carried the folder to the shelf above his desk. Luna appeared in the doorway wearing her usual sleepy expression.

"You’re awake."

"So are you."

"I was looking for you."

He turned toward her. "Did you need something?"

She crossed the room and slipped her arms around his waist.

"No. I just wanted to know where you were."

Eden rested his chin against her hair. Once, he might have heard that question as a warning. He might have wondered whether she was checking that he hadn’t vanished, whether she was afraid he’d leave again, or whether he could somehow promise her that nothing would ever change. Instead, he understood what she had actually said.

She had been looking for him.

And now she had found him.

"I’m here," he murmured.

"I know."

They stood together in the quiet room, surrounded by ordinary furniture and imperfect drawings. Beyond the window, the city lights shimmered in the distance. Tomorrow, the airplane might lose another wheel. The toaster might become a threat again. Someone would probably spill something, forget something, or start an argument over a matter of absolutely no importance.

Eden couldn’t prevent every mistake or protect every good thing from eventually changing. He could, however, keep showing up. He could repair what was repairable, accept what wasn’t, and stop treating every ending as evidence that he had failed.

When he finally went to bed, he left the little airplane on the desk beside the folder of drawings. He didn’t need either of them to last forever.

For tonight, it was enough that they were still there.