(AN: So some of you will not like this chapter. But try to enjoy)
May 1994 · Medford, Texas
Paige taped the last box shut with the heel of her hand, then pressed down on the seam like she didn't trust it.
Stephen watched her from the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, posture too straight for a room that was already half empty. The dorm smelled like cardboard and dust and the sharp bite of packing tape. His desk was bare except for the acceptance packet, a stack of notebooks, and the silver fountain pen his mother had given him. Everything else had been reduced to boxes and lists.
Paige wiped her fingers on her jeans. "You're going to rest this summer."
Stephen's eyes flicked to her face. "I'll try."
"That means you'll build something anyway," Paige said.
He didn't deny it. He slid a notebook into the top box and lined the corners like it mattered.
Paige stepped closer, close enough to block his hands for a second without touching him. "Stephen."
He looked up.
Her voice softened, but she didn't make it dramatic. "Don't disappear into projects. Not this summer. Not with everything happening."
Stephen's jaw tightened. He knew what she meant. Finals. MIT. The move. The weight of leaving. He also knew his family had been louder on the phone lately, and his father's cough showed up more often, always explained away, always treated like a small thing.
"I'm not disappearing," Stephen said.
Paige studied him, deciding whether to argue. She didn't. Instead she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded card.
She held it out. "Read it later. On the train. Or when you get home. Not right now."
Stephen took it carefully. "Okay."
Paige's mouth lifted, small and tired. "Call me when you get there."
"I will," Stephen said.
She didn't stretch the goodbye. She walked with him to the shuttle stop, stood beside him while he waited, and bumped his shoulder once before the door folded open.
"Don't optimize your way out of living," she said.
Stephen's eyes stayed on her. "That's not a real sentence."
"It is when I say it," Paige replied, and waved once as the shuttle pulled away.
Stephen watched her until she was a smaller shape behind glass, then until she was gone.
On the train, he sat by the window and kept his hands still. The seat fabric was rough against his forearm. The air smelled like metal, old coffee, and someone's cologne that had settled into the upholstery years ago. People moved past in the aisle, bags bumping knees, voices low and impatient.
He looked out and let the countryside take over his vision. Fence lines. Pastures. A water tower. Long stretches of nothing that still felt like home because it was Texas and it didn't apologize for being empty.
He didn't write. He didn't do math to pass time. He let the motion do what it did. He tried to listen to the train's steady sound and not fill every quiet gap with a thought he could control.
That lasted until his mind wandered to his father's cough.
Stephen's fingers flexed once, then settled again. He stared at his reflection layered over the window view and didn't like how calm he looked.
When the train slowed into the station, he stood before most people did. He lifted his bag, checked the strap once, and moved toward the door without rushing. Outside, Texas heat hit immediately, thick and familiar even in May.
Mary was waiting at the platform with Missy beside her. Missy was talking before Stephen's shoes touched the ground.
"Two whole months without homework," Missy said. "I'm going to forget everything on purpose."
Stephen's mouth twitched. "Sounds efficient."
Mary hugged him hard, like the weeks between visits had been a personal offense. She pulled back and touched his face with one hand, quick and practiced, like she needed proof he was real.
"You're thinner," she said.
"I'm not," Stephen replied.
"You are," Mary insisted, already turning him slightly as if she could measure by sight. "You eat enough?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Missy made a face. "He eats like a robot."
Stephen looked down at her. "I eat."
"Yeah," Missy said. "When Paige tells you to."
Mary's eyebrows lifted. She looked pleased by that and tried to hide it.
Georgie's truck rolled up loud, engine unnecessary, as if volume could announce him better than his grin. The passenger seat was stuffed with baby toys, a blanket, a small bag that looked like it had been packed by someone who expected disaster on a daily basis.
Georgie leaned out the window. "Hey, college boy. You ready to see the most perfect human in Texas?"
Mary pointed at him immediately. "CeeCee's asleep."
Georgie didn't care. "She can still be perfect while sleeping."
Stephen's chest tightened at her name. He hadn't seen her in months.
On the drive home, Georgie talked the whole way. Mandy's shifts. The baby's new habit of gripping his thumb like she was holding him accountable. The way she laughed when Missy made faces. Georgie's voice had changed in small ways. Still Georgie. Still loud. But steadier. Like he had a reason to show up every day.
Stephen listened and answered when needed. He watched the road ahead through the windshield and felt his brain slow down the closer they got to the house. Familiar turns. Familiar trees. The same leaning mailbox.
George was in the yard when they pulled in. He was half under the mower, radio low, a rag in his hand. He rolled out slowly, wiped his palms, and stood.
His father looked at him with that same quiet appraisal that never felt like judgment. It felt like care pretending not to be soft.
"You look older every time I blink," George said.
Stephen's shoulders eased a fraction. "You say that every time."
"Then it's true," George replied, and clapped Stephen's shoulder once. Solid. Brief.
Inside, the house had shifted.
Mary warned him as she walked him down the hall. "Don't be surprised. We did a little rearranging."
Stephen's room looked mostly the same. Desk under the window. Books on the shelf. The same scuff on the baseboard where he'd kicked it once years ago. But the other half had changed.
Sheldon had moved into Georgie's old space. His side was a small universe of labeled boxes, a telescope, and stacks of magazines lined to the millimeter. Wires spread across the bedspread like he had turned it into a work table.
Sheldon didn't look up when Stephen stepped in. "I optimized the layout," Sheldon said. "Your half is preserved."
Stephen glanced at the clean line dividing the room. It was exactly as Sheldon claimed. It made something in Stephen's chest pinch.
"Appreciated," Stephen said.
Missy yelled from across the hall. "I finally have my own room with a door that locks!"
Sheldon's head snapped toward the hall. "Locks are not standard procedure."
"That's why I need it," Missy yelled back.
Mary shook her head like she'd been doing it for years. She smiled anyway.
Stephen set his bag down and started unpacking without being told. Not because anyone expected it. Because his hands needed a task.
Saturday morning started like nothing bad had ever happened in that yard.
Mary hummed in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, her shoulders loose. Missy stole pieces of toast straight off the plate and acted offended when Mary swatted her hand. Sheldon sat in the living room with wires spread across the coffee table, assembling something with the intensity of a scientist trying to control the universe through solder.
Stephen knelt by the hallway wall with a screwdriver, replacing a light switch that had started sticking again. He liked small repairs. They had clear causes. Clear solutions.
Outside, George mowed.
The mower's engine had a steady rhythm, the kind of background noise you stop noticing because it means everything is fine. Stephen heard it through the wall, through the screen door, through the house settling.
Then the sound stopped.
Not gradually. Not fading. It cut off mid-rhythm.
Stephen froze with the screwdriver still in his hand.
A scrape followed. Metal against concrete. Then nothing.
Mary called from the kitchen. "George?"
No answer.
Stephen stood up so fast the screwdriver clattered to the floor. He was already moving before his brain finished naming what it feared.
He hit the screen door hard enough that it slapped against the frame. The heat outside was immediate, the air thick with cut grass and gasoline.
George was on the ground beside the mower.
His eyes were open. His face looked wrong, slack in a way Stephen had never seen on him. One arm lay bent under him like it had given up mid-motion.
Stephen dropped to his knees.
He didn't stare. He didn't hesitate. He checked, fast and precise. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.
Nothing.
A tight sound tried to climb into Stephen's throat. He forced it down.
"Mom," he called, voice sharp enough to cut through the house. "Call 911. Now."
Mary's footsteps hit the porch, then the yard, fast and uneven. "George? George!"
Stephen didn't look up. He positioned his hands, locked his arms, and started compressions.
His body went into rhythm. Strong. Controlled. No wasted motion. The world narrowed to pressure and count and the faint give of ribs beneath his palms.
"Sheldon," Stephen shouted without stopping. "Phone. Tell them he isn't breathing."
Sheldon appeared in the doorway, face pale, eyes wide, frozen for half a second like his brain had tripped on a reality error.
"Now," Stephen snapped.
Sheldon moved. He ran inside, and Stephen heard the phone receiver lift hard. Heard Sheldon's voice go steady, too steady.
"This is Sheldon Cooper," Sheldon said, clear and clipped. "My father collapsed outside our house. He is not moving and he is not breathing. Please send an ambulance."
Stephen counted under his breath. One, two, three. His arms didn't shake. His shoulders burned, but he didn't feel it yet. He kept his eyes on George's chest as if staring could force it to rise.
Mary's voice broke somewhere behind him. Missy started crying, high and scared, the kind of sound that doesn't stop because it can't.
Stephen kept going.
The ambulance arrived with sirens too loud for a neighborhood street. Paramedics ran through the gate, gear bouncing, voices loud and practiced.
"Sir, move back," one of them said.
Stephen didn't stop until hands were on his shoulders pulling him away.
"He has no pulse," Stephen said, breath sharp. "No breathing. I started CPR immediately."
The paramedic nodded without looking surprised. They dropped to George's side and took over with fast coordination.
Stephen stumbled back a step. His hands were red. His shirt clung to his spine. The mower sat nearby, still.
Mary made a sound like she couldn't get enough air.
Stephen turned toward her automatically, reached out, then stopped. He didn't know where to put his hands. He didn't know how to hold his mother in a moment like this without breaking something.
Georgie arrived at the hospital in work clothes, face gray, eyes blown wide like he'd been hit. He found Mary first and wrapped his arms around her so hard she folded into him. Missy clung to Mary's side, shaking.
Sheldon sat beside Stephen in the waiting room, posture rigid. His hands were folded too tightly in his lap. His knee bounced in a small, constant motion that betrayed him.
Stephen's hands rested on his thighs. He could still feel the compressions in his palms. The rhythm had imprinted itself into his nerves.
A doctor came in after what felt like hours but was probably minutes. White coat. Tired eyes. That careful face people wear when they're about to change your life and they hate that they have to.
Stephen knew before the words came out. He saw it in the way the doctor's shoulders settled.
"It was a massive heart attack," the doctor said softly. "It was quick. We couldn't bring him back."
Mary's sound wasn't a scream. It was quiet and cracked and it collapsed into Georgie's chest.
Missy sobbed into her sleeve. Georgie stared at the floor like if he looked up, it would become real.
Sheldon's eyes tracked to a wall monitor, then to the doctor's face. His voice came out low, precise, and broken at the edges.
"So the myocardial tissue failed due to ischemic blockage," Sheldon said.
The doctor blinked, surprised, then nodded. "Yes."
Sheldon exhaled through his nose. "Then there was nothing you could do."
It wasn't a question. It was an answer he hated.
Stephen's throat tightened. He didn't speak. He couldn't. He sat there and let the words hit his chest like weight.
Meemaw arrived before sunset.
Her hair was wild, her eyes sharp, her face set like she was ready to fight the world for doing this. She walked straight to Stephen first, as if she knew where the damage was likely to hide.
She put her hand on his shoulder. Heavy. Real.
"You did right," she said. "You hear me? You did right."
Stephen swallowed. "I wasn't fast enough."
Meemaw's grip tightened. "No," she said. "Don't start with that."
Stephen's jaw worked. His eyes stayed on the floor. "If I had been outside sooner."
Meemaw shook her head once. "Sugar, you can't outrun everything. Not even you."
She looked at him like she could see straight through his bones. "Some things you don't solve," she said. "You love through it. That's all you got."
Stephen didn't answer. His throat wouldn't cooperate.
Back at the house, the air felt wrong.
Too quiet, then suddenly too loud when someone moved a plate or shut a cabinet. The couch cushions looked the same. The pictures on the wall were the same. But the shape of the place had changed anyway.
Sheldon kept moving like motion could hold the house together. He checked the thermostat. Adjusted curtains. Took apart the toaster and lined the pieces up on the counter with perfect spacing.
Stephen watched him for a while, then spoke softly. "You planning to fix it or study it."
Sheldon didn't look up. "It makes sense," Sheldon said. His voice was tight. "When something makes sense."
Stephen nodded once. "Then do it," he said.
That night, Missy came into Stephen's room without knocking. Her eyes were red. Her hair was messy like she'd been pulling at it.
She stood in the doorway for a second like she didn't know where to put herself.
"You didn't panic," she said, accusing and begging at the same time.
Stephen sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at her and didn't lie.
"I did," Stephen said. "I just didn't have time to show it."
Missy's face crumpled. She crossed the room fast and climbed onto the bed beside him like she was seven again. She pressed her forehead into his shoulder and shook.
Stephen put his arm around her. Careful at first. Then tighter when she didn't pull away.
The funeral was small.
Warm morning. Open windows. A chapel that smelled like old wood and flowers. People from the neighborhood. People from George's work. Dale Ballard sat with his hat in his hands, quiet, eyes red like he'd been up all night.
Stephen stood when it was time because no one else could. Mary couldn't. Georgie couldn't speak without breaking. Sheldon looked like he might turn to stone if he tried.
Stephen kept it short.
He talked about his father fixing things. Not in a poetic way. In the real way. The way George changed oil before it got bad. The way he tightened a loose cabinet hinge without announcing it. The way he showed up.
Stephen's voice stayed steady until it didn't. The break was small. Just a tightening around one word.
He swallowed and finished anyway.
In Mary's arms, CeeCee made a small sound, a baby noise that didn't understand death and didn't care about timing. It cut through the room. People cried harder after that, as if the sound gave them permission.
After the service, Dale shook Stephen's hand once. His grip was firm, respectful.
"Your dad was a solid man," Dale said. "Didn't talk much. Didn't have to."
Stephen nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Outside, Meemaw caught Stephen before he could walk off and disappear behind a tree or a car or a task.
"He'd be proud of you," she said.
Stephen stared at the gravel under his shoes. "I didn't feel steady."
Meemaw's mouth tightened. "Steady ain't a feeling," she said. "It's a choice."
That night, Stephen sat on the porch where his father used to end the day.
The boards creaked under his feet the same way they always had. The air smelled like cut grass and dust and somebody's grill down the street. Crickets were loud. Cars passed far off, headlights sliding through gaps in the trees.
Stephen didn't bring a notebook. He didn't fix anything. He sat with his hands empty and let his lungs move.
At some point, the tears came anyway. Not all at once. They slipped down his face and soaked into his shirt collar and made his throat burn. He didn't wipe them fast. He didn't talk himself out of them.
He stayed there until the night cooled and his breathing finally stopped fighting him.
Morning came slow.
Meemaw stepped out with coffee. Sheldon followed with cocoa, wearing one of George's old flannel shirts. It hung past Sheldon's hands, sleeves swallowing his wrists. He looked smaller in it.
Sheldon sat without being asked.
"Mom says I should keep you company," Sheldon said.
"You don't have to," Stephen replied.
"I know," Sheldon said. "I want to."
They sat for a while without speaking. The yard looked normal in the morning light. The mower sat where it had been left.
Then Sheldon asked, careful and plain, "If Dad fixed everything, who fixes us."
Meemaw looked toward the horizon like she was checking whether the world was still there.
"We do," Meemaw said finally. "Bit by bit."
Stephen nodded once. His throat tightened again, but he didn't run from it.
"That's what he taught us," Stephen said.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.
(AN: what did you think I know I could have changed what happened but unfortunately I think it need to happen. I teared up a little did you?)