Darkness. Silence. Eternity.
And then...
Birdsong. Sunlight. A room. Time begins to pass.
[[Look Around]]Bed. A bedroom? Whose?
[[Mirror]]. The room, reversed. No reflection.
[[Empty?]]Look down. No feet. No hands. No body.
[[A ghost?]]A ghost. The thought stirs a long-dormant mind. This room, this bed, you knew them once. But how much time has passed since then?
Whoever, wherever you are, this room must have answers.
[[The Desk]]
[[The Wardrobe]]
[[The Bed]]Unopened mail covers every surface of the desk. A faded local newspaper sits to one side, but nothing in it looks interesting.
(set: $desk to 1)
[[Back to the room]] (set: $wrd to 1)
An old wooden wardrobe sits in the far corner. A thick layer of dust covers the top, but the doors and faded clothes inside are relatively clean.
(if: $itc is not 1)[[Investigate the clothes]]
(if: $fb is not 1)[[Further back]]
(if: $pictures is not 1)[[Check the top]]
(if: $itc is 1 and $fb is 1 and $pictures is 1)[[Back to the room]]The bed has been neatly made, but the sheets smell as if they haven't been changed in months. One set of pillows is noticeably dirtier than the other.
[[Under the Bed]]Pants and shirts. It sounds like spring outside, but there are winter coats and snow boots near the front. There is no sign of warm weather clothing.
(set: $itc to 1)
[[The Wardrobe]] It's much deeper than it first appears. You push through several rows of clothes, throwing up larger clouds of dust each time, before reaching the back wall. A carefully arranged uniform and cap hang from the center.
You can't recognize the uniform, but you feel a strong sense of pride looking at it. Its placement reminds you of a painting in a gallery.
(set: $fb to 1)
[[The Wardrobe]] The top is completely barren except for a clock which shows the time in several major cities. All of them are currently flashing 12:00.
(set: $pictures to 1)
[[The Wardrobe]] You float back to the center of the room.
(if: $wrd is not 1)[[The Wardrobe]]
(if: $desk is not 1)[[The Desk]]
(if: $bed is not 1)[[The Bed]]
(if: $wrd is 1 and $desk is 1 and $bed is 1)[After scanning the room again, you notice a small bookshelf near the door. It's filled with travel albums showing a happy family in various places around the world. The oldest albums only show a man and a woman, but eventually you find a photo showing them with a small child on a beach. You.
Seeing your own face after so long triggers an immense unease, and you slam the book shut. You don't know how long it takes you to recover from the daze of emotions, but when you do, you're in a new room.
[[Check the room]]]A pair of men's slippers and a handful of cardboard boxes line one side. The other merely has several cobwebs.
(set: $bed to 1)
[[Back to the room]] Your room, without a doubt. The small child you just saw seems to have grown into a young adult.
Maps cover the walls and model planes form a protective wall across every shelf of books. You can't bring yourself to touch anything.
[[Check the walls]]
[[Look at the planes]]
[[Your desk]]Various maps show the world, continents, and countries in great detail. They form an unbroken line around the room save for a small gap in the middle reserved for a number of frames.
A handful contain recognitions for local contests or sports. One higher up holds a high school diploma, and another college. But all of them are arranged to highlight a single frame at the center: A letter announcing your certification as a pilot.
Your mind flashes through a thousand scenes of the study and training that led to that letter. It was your proudest achievement.
(set: $walls to 1)
[[Look Around->Look Around 2]]The models progress from simple pre-assembled planes on one side of the room to carefully constructed and painted hobby models on the other. The most complex models are all passenger jets from various eras.
(set: $planes to 1)
[[Look Around->Look Around 2]] Your desk is neat, and the only item that draws your attention is an opened letter off to one side. It's an offer of employment from an airline. You've signed the contract. Why is the letter still here?
(set: $desk2 to 1)
[[Look Around ->Look Around 2]]The rest of your room awaits.
(if: $walls is not 1)[[Check the walls]]
(if: $planes is not 1)[[Look at the planes]]
(if: $desk2 is not 1)[[Your desk]]
(if: $walls is 1 and $planes is 1 and $desk2 is 1)[You turn to leave the room, but suddenly remember your diary. In a box, beneath newspaper clippings, under the bed. Where no one would ever find it.
[[Your diary]]]Dozens of passages from over the years cover one life event or another. School, friendships, moments of glory and of loss. Your story told in ink and paper.
The final entries mostly cover your time in flight school and the stress of finding a job. The last page, dated to early December, says:
//I finally got an offer! The pay isn't quite what I'd hoped for, and I'll mostly be flying regional routes to the boondocks at first, but it's a real job! With a real airline!
They want me to start training next week, so I barely have time to celebrate. I haven't forgotten my promise to Mom and Dad, though. I'll take them on my last flight as a private pilot to see the full moon.//
The memories hit you like a truck, yet they stop before the flight with your parents. Something terrible must have happened, but what?
[[The newspaper!]]Suddenly, you remember the newspaper on what must have been your father's desk. It was dated a week after your diary entry.
You rush back to the desk, cursing your inability to pass through walls, to check the paper. And there it is.
//TWO KILLED IN CRASH AT LOCAL AIRFIELD
--A family outing turned into disaster on the 9th after a two-seater plane failed to take off and collided with a hill at the end of the runway. Paramedics and firefighters arrived in minutes, but both occupants were pronounced dead at the scene. The names of the victims had not been released at press time. An investigation into the cause of the crash is underway, according to officials, but results may not be available for several months due to the extensive damage.//
Once again, memories flood back to your mind. Clearance to take off. A thumbs-up to Mom. Engines roaring, speed building, rising...
Falling.
And...
[[Darkness.]]Hundreds of hours of study and pratice. Your whole life built up to that moment. It should've been one of triumph, to show Mom and Dad you were ready to take the mantle.
Instead? A hill, and no doubt a memorial outside the airfield's office. //"Here lies the pilot who couldn't."//
[[Takeoff]]
[[Before the flight]]
[[The plane]](set: $takeoff to 1)
No wind, clear skies. The full moon. You couldn't imagine a better night to fly.
You powered down the runway just like always. If anything, you reached takeoff speed earlier than usual. But then, just as you felt the familiar sense of leaving the ground, a jolt, a bang, and the ground again. In seconds, smoke, fire, and the hill. Where had you gone wrong?
[[Other possibilities]] (set: $theflight to 1)
You think back to the checklist. Mom had done it with you, and even made you doublecheck the whole thing. All the measurements were working, weight and weather were well within guidelines, and there wasn't a hint of ice on the wings.
You'd both flown this plane a hundred times, though. As careful as you wanted to be, maybe some small step had slipped through in the excitement?
[[Other possibilities]](set: $theplane to 1)
Mom and Dad bought it when you were in 8th grade. It was still one of the newer planes at the airfield, and it had even passed inspections again recently!
Of course, machines break. Something could have gone wrong. But blaming the plane is too easy. You know this was your mistake.
[[Other possibilities]] What about...
(if: $theflight is not 1)
[[Before the flight]]
(if: $takeoff is not 1)
[[Takeoff]]
(if: $theplane is not 1)
[[The plane]]
(if: $theflight is 1 and $takeoff is 1 and $theplane is 1)[A loud robin in the window pulls you from your memories.
[[Shoo it]]]You wave frantically at the robin for a bit before remembering that you are, of course, invisible. The robin sees something and flies off on its own.
But then... the crash was in December. If spring is already here, surely the investigation must have finished?
[[The basement computer]]You make your way to the basement and find the old thing in its usual corner. Despite its age and all their other fancy gadgets, Mom and Dad had never considered replacing it any more than they had the family pets. It had solitaire and spreadsheets and, more importantly right now, the internet. What more could you need?
You shake the mouse and are relieved that ghosts can, in fact, use computers. You pull up an ancient browser and begin to search for the report when...
''No internet. Check your connection and try again''
[[Check connection]]It might have solitaire, but it sure couldn't support wi-fi. You reset the ethernet connection a few times. No luck. Ditto resetting the modem.
And then you notice that the network light is off. There's no connection here. You'd call the internet company, but, well...
[[Look around the basement]]You scan the room for anything useful, but you know it's hopeless. Besides the computer, this space was just storage for gardening tools, old toys, and decorations.
There is an unfamiliar tarp in one corner, though. You figure it's worth checking.
[[The tarp]]You take one look under the tarp and jump back. Inside are awards, photographs, clothes, books, and every other earthly reminder of Mom. Her own uniform, fresh with the markings of her latest promotion, is in the center. Dad had planned a trip after New Year's to celebrate both your new jobs.
But all that was gone now. A lifetime criss-crossing the world in a dozen different aircraft, and now just a pile of memories under a tarp in a basement. All because her kid botched a simple take off. Because of you.
[[Answers]]You feel yourself slipping back to nothingness, but refocus just in time. You'll have an eternity to grieve, but this is your only chance to know what happened.
You rush upstairs and find a mountain of newspapers near the front door. One of them //must// have what you're looking for.
[[December]]
[[January]]
[[February]]
[[March]](set: $dec to 1)
The paper from the 11th announces your names. The 12th states the airfield has reopened.
After that, you're forgotten. Life went on.
[[Back to the papers]](set: $jan to 1)
A state representative disappeared after New Year's. The January papers cover every detail of the search, which ends in an isolated part of the state park. His hiking part was disoriented in a storm and fell down an embankment. No foul play.
No mention of your accident. Your mother's airline is hiring.
[[Back to the papers]](set: $feb to 1)
February saw a special election, and the papers were devoted to coverage of each of the candidates. There are campaign pledges and pictures of men and women kissing babies, but nothing about the accident.
[[Back to the papers]](set: $mar to 1)
A local graduate expected to qualify for the Olympic team. The mayor approved plans for a new library. A quiet month.
[[Back to the papers]]There's more to read.
(if: $dec is not 1)[[December]]
(if: $jan is not 1)[[January]]
(if: $feb is not 1)[[February]]
(if: $mar is not 1)[[March]]
(if: $dec is 1 and $jan is 1 and $feb is 1 and $mar is 1)[You check the pile once again and find a few April papers that slid down the back.
[[April]]]April starts out very much like March. Nothing of note happens for several days and then, on the 5th, you find it. Squashed between advertisements on the third page:
//DECEMBER CRASH REPORT RELEASED
Officials yesterday released the final report on the crash that claimed two lives in December. Although greatly hindered by the condition of the plane, investigators had "high confidence" that the cause was an improperly installed bolt, which shattered under stress and severed critical control cables, causing the plane to lose altitude and crash. The report recommended modifications to make similar errors easier to spot in the future. //
[[A bolt?]]You drop the paper. Of all the stupid mistakes you might have made, of all the countless things that might've gone wrong, it was //a bolt//? You could have come to terms with your own guilt, but dying because of an unknown mechanic's oversight?
[[When could it have happened?]]You think back to the plane. It had, of course, just passed an inspection. But... that doesn't seem right. It had gone through another, and couldn't possibly have been due for another yet.
Then you remember the summer. There'd been a small bump in the hanger, and you'd had to make repairs to the tail. It hadn't seemed like much at the time, but that must be when...
[[...]]Of course. Dad had been a mechanic before he was a pilot, and he still did light aircraft repairs from time to time. He couldn't do big jobs, but something small like this was easy, he'd said. He brought it out of the hanger a few days later, complete with new paint. //Good as new!//
And, of course, with a new bolt. A completely unremarkable change, until it wasn't.
[[Dad]]The tarp in the basement. The dusty uniform in the wardrobe. The lapsed internet, your untouched room, the dust, the mail, the papers. They all come back to you in an instant. He knew.
You check every room in the house before finding him in a guest room. He's fallen asleep on the couch while an old TV shows the 12:00 news. He's put on weight, looks as if he hasn't shaved in days, and smells the part. The guilt you've felt for hours, stretched to months.
[[Acceptance]]You don't, and will never, know what you would've done with your own guilt. You don't, and will never, know how you might've felt if an anonymous mechanic, eager to get off the clock, had installed the wrong bolt. Maybe there's a version of you out there, in another world with another story, who is crushed under their responsibility or wishing misery upon a lazy worker.
Yet you do know, here and now, that you don't want this. Mom is gone, and your own presence is fading. Nothing can change that. But you won't let the crash take a third life. Whatever is left of your lives and dreams now, someone has to carry them on. And you don't care if that someone once used the wrong bolt.
As the last of your form melts away, you give dad a final hug. Even if he could hear you, there's no time to say everything you want to say. It'll have to do.
[[Darkness]]I shut the journal. The doc says writing about my feelings will help process everything, but I still can't get used to putting myself in their heads. And yet, somehow forgiveness is more convincing in "their" words than in my own.
It's been a year now since the crash, and eight since I finally dragged myself to therapy. I still have the nightmares, and the wrong sound or sight still triggers flashbacks, but I'm learning to move on. Learning not to let a bolt define any more of my life than it already has.
Some old coworkers offered to take me to see the memorial for the first time. Maybe it's finally time.
//End//
↶↷Darkness. Silence. Eternity.
And then...
Birdsong. Sunlight. A room. Time begins to pass.
Look Around