He’d shut himself up in the study for a minute – just a minute, that had turned into ten and then twenty and then two hours – because there was too much in his head, like his head was being torn apart by it all. Everything hurt. His arms felt sore; there was a stabbing feeling in his knee, like he’d just hit it against something and the pain was still ricocheting around in him; there was a terrible ache of sorrow in his chest. It was more than he had felt in years.
There was some kind of work on the desk, paperwork, research, reports – he didn’t know. He’d seen the signature on it – Philip Rowle – but otherwise would scarcely have recognised it as his. And then – still more strangely – when a woman stumbled into the room, it took a moment to sink in that she was Seraphina. Sera – his sister, Sera – Sera, whom he best remembered as a nine-year-old, a girl, ten years younger than him... although that wasn’t right, because somewhere in his head he also remembered her graduating and marrying and having children, too. A life within a life. Memories locked up in memories.
He saw the terrible confusion on her face, and felt it. Viscerally. A muscle clenched in his jaw. “It’s happening to me too,” he said, grimly. “It all feels real.”
There was some kind of work on the desk, paperwork, research, reports – he didn’t know. He’d seen the signature on it – Philip Rowle – but otherwise would scarcely have recognised it as his. And then – still more strangely – when a woman stumbled into the room, it took a moment to sink in that she was Seraphina. Sera – his sister, Sera – Sera, whom he best remembered as a nine-year-old, a girl, ten years younger than him... although that wasn’t right, because somewhere in his head he also remembered her graduating and marrying and having children, too. A life within a life. Memories locked up in memories.
He saw the terrible confusion on her face, and felt it. Viscerally. A muscle clenched in his jaw. “It’s happening to me too,” he said, grimly. “It all feels real.”
