ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀᴡɴ

Chapter 8

"Nat," he said, fastening the first button on his shirt. "I may not be in today. I need to attend to something urgent. Could please you move all my appointments till tomorrow?"

"No problem sir," Natalie replied. He could hear her typing on her keyboard through the receiver, a smile playing on his face.

I found it, he told himself. But Ivona has been dead for more than 50 years now. How come?

"Sir?" Natalie's voice snapped him back to reality, he looked at his face reflected in the mirror. He looked confused and couldn't fail to notice the dark bags under his eyes or his sunken cheeks—or the fact that he had lost drastically weight.

"Yes Nat," he said steadily, surprising himself further.

"All appointments have been suspended till tomorrow."

"Thank you Nat," he pushed his hair back.

"The pleasure is mine and have a nice day sir," she said in her usual cherry voice. He murmured a 'thank you' in response before the line went dead. He sighed in front of the mirror, buttoning the last button. He swiped his shoes that laid on the floor, moved to the edge of the bed and sat. He slid his feet in them and laced them one after the other.

When he was done, he got up and looked at himself. "You knew it from the start. This could be it," he soliloquised. He turned the lights off and shut the door.

Rushing downstairs, he brought his hand to his face—it was 8:13am. Twenty-seven minutes to go, he thought, jogging down the stairs. The curtains swaying back and forth, successfully catching his attention. He walked over towards one of the swaying curtains, shifting it away. The sky was blue, splotches of white and grey clouds spotted it.

'A beautiful day. Isn't it Miles', he mocked himself, readjusting the curtain again before walking into the kitchen. The blue counters weren't his idea but he loved it. If Cameron were here, would she have stayed? He pushed the thought back, standing on his toes to reach the cupboard, pulling out a jar of strawberry jam. He set it down on the counter, sliding the loaf of bread closer to the jam. He got a black coffee mug from the mug rack and a packet of tea bag. Opening the lid, he retrieved a tea bag, placing it in the cup before adding boiling water from the dispenser.

He placed it on the counter with the other items whilst picking out a butter knife from the stainless steel utensils. He turned the lid clockwise, opened the jam and carefully dropped the lid on the counter. He picked his phone up, scrolling through his music collection—Beethoven's Symphony No. 5. When he tapped on it, the song started playing through the speakers in the house.

He took a sip of his hot tea—the way he liked it. He chewed on his now jam-spread bread slices, taking a swig of his tea. His eyes focused on the picture frame hanging at the end of the wall but within his line of sight.

The perfect family, he had once thought, but now, a repulsive memory he was stuck with. "Memories are the only thing we can create and destroy, each action having different consequences", his father had said to him when he was 16. He had created his memory but—did he destroy it?

He couldn't have.

Impossible! He loved June. He loved their son Cameron so much...

He shook his head in irritation, slamming the empty mug down on the counter before standing up. He slid the lid back on the jam, returning it back into the cupboard. He rinsed the mug in the cold running water and after which, he discarded the dank tea bag in the bin.

He hung his bag over his shoulder and exited the house. He saw his car, but he passed it by. If he was going to get over his thoughts, he'll do that by walking. The fresh air...the trees, that should be all for him to get over it. Besides, he's done this many time before.