Jareth

I remember his voice cracking when he was thirteen. I remember the way he said my name when he wanted something. I remember the exact shape of his hands.

But I cannot remember his eyes.

That is the punishment.

August 27th burned everything else into me. The date lives under my skin, corrosive, eating away at anything that tries to grow over it. That was the day he died—alone, under lights that flickered like they couldn’t be bothered to stay awake for him.

He was sick for months.

I didn’t know.

While his body failed quietly in a hospital room, I was busy learning how champagne tastes when you don’t deserve it. I fed cake to a woman who never asked where my son was. I smiled for cameras. I shook hands. I built futures.

The world ended politely, without interrupting me.

The call came late. Too late to matter.

By the time I arrived, he was already gone. Covered. Cleaned. Reduced to paperwork and a nurse who spoke softly, like grief was something fragile she might drop.

I didn’t cry then.

I cried when I saw him.

After that, everything left me in turns. My wife. My friends. The company. I didn’t fight it. What was there to defend? A man without his child is already an abandoned thing.

Then someone gave me Lapse.

They said, Take it. You’ll see what you need.

I saw him.

He was seventeen again. Maybe eighteen. Exactly as old as death allowed him to be. Untouched by time. Preserved.

After a while, I didn’t need the pills.

He stayed.

Now he never leaves.

Tonight, he sleeps against my chest, eyes closed as they always are. I tell myself it’s rest. I tell myself he’s safe enough to sleep now. I tell myself I’ll see his eyes again someday, when he’s ready.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, my voice barely more than breath. “You’re okay. Daddy’s here.”