Chapter 6: The Note and the Game

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Seeing that I didn't want to talk anymore, my ex-wife could only shake her head helplessly.

She squeezed my hand before leaving, her grip warm and steady, just for a moment. Then she slung her purse over her shoulder and disappeared into the late afternoon crowd.

After a few words of comfort, she got up and left.

The chair across from me felt even emptier after she was gone. I stared at the cold dregs of my coffee, wishing for something—anything—to change.

I sat there lost in thought for a long time, then finally got up and headed home.

The world outside was damp and gray, the sidewalks slick with last night's rain. My shoes splashed through puddles as I walked with my head down, hands shoved deep in my pockets.

There are many barbecue joints on the way home.

Old neon pig signs, the smell of hickory smoke curling out onto the street. Families laughing inside, pitchers of sweet tea clinking on Formica tables. It all felt a world away.

I always cross to the other side of the street to avoid them.

Some memories are too sharp to risk. I'd rather dodge traffic than walk through that haze of smoke and sizzling fat.

Just the sizzle from a grill sets my teeth on edge.

The hiss of the grill, the flare of fire—it's too much. My chest tightens, my hands start to shake. I can't breathe.

For five years, whenever I saw grilled meat, I would think of my son, burned to ashes.

Even the thought of a summer cookout made me nauseous. I stopped going to Fourth of July parties, stopped inviting friends over. The smell haunted me.

I'd get so nauseous I nearly fainted.

Once, I almost collapsed in the middle of a tailgate party. My friends thought it was the heat. I never corrected them.

I don't blame anyone; I only blame myself for making the most unforgivable decision of my life.

No matter how many times people tried to reassure me, I couldn't let myself off the hook. The guilt was mine to carry.

By the way, when I left the coffee shop earlier, I was about to pay the bill.

I dug for my wallet, half out of habit, half out of embarrassment. The cashier—a kid with green hair and chipped nail polish—smiled at me.

But the cashier handed me a slip of paper.

He said, "That lady already paid."

His voice was soft, almost apologetic. I blinked in surprise, feeling awkward and a little grateful.

On the white paper was written: "Cheer up. I mean it—no one blames you. It wasn't your fault."

Her handwriting, neat and slanted, just like always. I folded the note and slipped it into my wallet, where it still sits, creased and fading.

But of course, I know it was my fault.

No words—no matter how kind—can erase what happened. The note burned in my pocket all the way home.

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Chapter Six

Back in the empty old house, I opened the door to my son's room.

It smelled like dust and old sneakers, faint hints of his cologne lingering in the air. The blinds were half-closed, casting stripes of light across the faded rug. I paused in the doorway, heart in my throat.

Even though he's gone, I've never touched his room.

His laundry basket was still half-full, textbooks stacked on the desk just where he'd left them. His favorite baseball cap hung from the doorknob, frayed brim and all.

Not even the smallest keepsake has been moved.

Sometimes I sit on the edge of his bed, running my fingers over the threadbare comforter, trying to remember how he used to kick off his shoes and flop down after school.

I wanted to preserve every trace of him.

His sneakers lined up by the closet, trophies gathering dust, a crumpled jersey tossed over the back of his chair. It was all I had left.

I sat at his desk, looking at those mementos full of memories, unable to hold back my tears.

The tears came without warning, hot and silent. I gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, wishing I could turn back the clock.

Lost in thought, I subconsciously turned on his computer.

The old gaming PC whirred to life, fans rattling. His login screen appeared—still set to a photo of him and his buddies at Six Flags, all braces and goofy grins.

Because I often powered it on for maintenance, it still worked.

I'd made a habit of checking for updates, clearing out dust, trying to keep it as pristine as the day he last used it. It was a small, pointless comfort.

The desktop was filled with games he had downloaded.

Icons lined the screen—League of Legends, Minecraft, games I'd never even heard of. Each one was a doorway to a world I'd never understand.

I'd tried to log into them before, but without my son's account, I couldn't get in.

Username and password prompts taunted me, reminding me how little I knew about his secret life online.

Many of those games had become relics of a bygone era; five years had passed, and half of them were now dead servers.

I'd google them sometimes, reading forums full of strangers sharing stories, all of them just as lost as me.

But to me, these once unfamiliar games had become as familiar as old friends.

I memorized their icons, their start-up sounds, the way his desk chair creaked when he sat down for a late-night session.

I clicked through them one by one, and then, in the corner of the desktop, I noticed an icon I'd never seen before.

A little red pixel heart, glowing faintly. The name was simple: [Redemption Game].

It was called [Redemption Game].

The icon pulsed when I hovered over it, a heartbeat on the screen.

Strangely, I had never noticed it before.

It felt like it had appeared out of nowhere—like a secret message, hidden just for me.

Regretting my continued carelessness, I moved the mouse over it.

My hand trembled as I double-clicked, the room holding its breath.

When I clicked it, the homepage was empty—nothing at all.

A black window popped up, no music, no splash screen. Just emptiness.

There was only a line of strange numbers in front of me:

[0/3].

The cursor blinked at me, like it knew a secret. And for the first time in years, I wanted to know it too.