Morning Routine

The peaceful song of birds and the gentle wave of sunlight flooded into Michael's small bedroom window as day broke his deep ocean-swelled sleep. He opened his eyes to the familiar wooden ceiling and watched the sky-blue painted ceiling fan circle slowly above him. The hypnotic effect it had made him want to stay in bed for the rest of the day, but there were things that needed to be done.

Michael sat up, but he paused and placed his face in his childhood yellow baby blanket. He'd been waking up with worse and worse headaches after the incident. The pain was like a dull buzz at the front of his forehead. It was bad in the morning, but it faded with the day. He pulled his face from the blanket and took a deep breath. He threw one leg over the side of the bed, and then the other.

He looked around the large accustomed room with all of his happy childhood memories scattered across the floor in forms of toys and trinkets. He stood up and sluggishly walked to the door. It opened to a massive hallway with big windows and lots of empty frames where family portraits used to be. Michael stuffed his hands in his pajama pants pockets and watched the floor as he walked into the foyer. The ceiling was so tall it could've touched the sky. The walls were so distant, they could have been separate countries. The floor was so empty, sometimes it felt like no one else lived in the house. Such a big place could make a person feel so small.

He made his way to the grand staircase and placed a hand on the beautifully finished railing before bouncing up the steps. Despite the complexity of the place, he'd spent nearly his entire life locked up here. At first his parents forced him to stay indoors against his rebellious will to venture out and see more of the world, but now he stayed on his own accord. The only time he went outside was to visit the garden in the backyard.

When he reached the second floor, Michael started for his parents' bedroom. Tall windows lined the hallway, letting in all of the colors of the outdoors. As he came up to the door, he paused at the handle. His fingers were shaking. Michael noticed the dark panic that attempted to creep up on him in the back of his mind. He closed his eyes and took a long breath, forcing that feeling back into its dungeon deep down. He opened his eyes and saw that his hand was steady enough to open the door.

Unlike his room, his parents' was simple, open, and clean like the rest of the house. There was just a bed and a chest. It was like the entire house was occupied by ghosts.

Michael silently closed the door behind him and quietly made his way to the bed where his father, Ranboo, laid sprawled out in all of the blankets, still asleep. Michael carefully went up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder to gently shake him awake.

His father's eyes slowly opened, drowsy and glazed with sleep. Michael took a seat at the edge of the bed and waited for him to stretch and yawn until he was fully sat up. Dad looked around the room with that blank expression on his face before memory slowly started to fade back. Michael softly took his father's hand and looked into his eyes.

"Good morning." He said. Dad didn't hold his gaze.

"Uh, I'm sorry, but who...?" His voice was as uncertain as his expression. Michael could tell that his dad was embarrassed about not being able to recognize the person sat in front of him.

"I'm Michael. I'm your son." He said. It took a moment for realization to settle across his father's face.

"Right. I'm sorry I-"

"It's ok, just breathe with me ok?" Michael interrupted his father's anxious spiral. They held each other's hands and breathed together. Michael told him where he was, hold old they were, their daily routine, and that they were the only members of the house.

"What's in that?" Dad asked as he pointed to the chest that sat at the foot of the bed. Michael turned to look at it and paused before answering.

"It's there if you want to open it, but you don't have to." Michael tried to sound unbiased, but he really didn't want his dad to open the chest. He hated days that they went through the chest. He waited silently for his father's response, the suspense wrapped tightly around his shoulders.