Page 44 of The Silence Between

“Surreal,” I admitted. “Like walking through a dream where everything's familiar but slightly wrong. The railroad bridge is gone.”

“Yeah, that happened a couple years back. Budget cuts hit maintenance before they hit actual programs. Safety hazard, apparently.” His tone suggested he understood the bridge's significance without requiring explanation. “How's the house working out?”

“Perfect for now,” I assured him. The small guest house behind his family's home offered privacy while I searched for a more permanent situation. “I appreciate you and Kate letting me crash until I find my own place.”

Marcus nodded, then approached the topic we'd been circling since my arrival two days ago. “So. Have you seen him yet?”

No need to specify who “him” meant.

“No,” I said, arranging papers that didn't need arranging. “And I'm not planning to seek him out immediately. That would be... intrusive.”

“But you want to see him.”

It wasn't a question, so I didn't treat it as one.

Marcus sighed. “Look, I've maintained friendships with both of you without interfering for ten years. I'm not starting now. But as someone who cares about you both...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Life hasn't been easy for him, Ethan. He never got the chances you did.”

“I know.”

“Do you? He's still raising those kids. Working multiple jobs to keep them housed and fed. Recently applied to community college classes, first time he's considered education for himself since high school.” Marcus set his coffee down. “I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty. Just setting realistic expectations. The Leo you knew has been through a lot.”

The information settled heavily, confirming what I'd suspected but hadn't wanted to face directly—while I'd been collecting literary prizes and lamenting the commercial pressures of success, Leo had remained bound by the same responsibilities that had separated us initially. The contrast in our paths sharpened my awareness of privilege, of opportunities afforded by family support and financial security that I'd taken for granted.

“I'm not expecting anything,” I said finally. “I just... needed to come back. To face this unfinished chapter.”

Marcus studied me for a long moment. “Night janitors usually finish around 2 AM,” he said casually, gathering his things as the warning bell rang. “Just FYI.”

Left alone as students began filtering into the hallway, I touched the worn poetry book I'd placed on my desk—the same volume Leo and I had once shared, its pages marked with both our handwriting.

The final bell rang, students beginning to enter with curious glances at the unfamiliar teacher. I took a deep breath and stepped into my new role, aware that somewhere in this same building, hours after I finished teaching, Leo would move through these same spaces—our paths separated by time but converging toward inevitable intersection.

10

ECHOING HALLS

ETHAN

Twenty pairs of eyes assessed me with the particular blend of curiosity, skepticism, and boredom that only teenagers can perfect. I stood at the front of my first-period English class, chalk dust already smudging my dark slacks, wondering if my own face had ever held that same expression when I sat in these very seats a decade ago.

“Good morning,” I began, my voice steadier than the tremor in my fingers suggested. “I'm Mr. Webb, your new English teacher for the remainder of the year.”

The institutional green walls hadn't changed, nor had the uncomfortable desks arranged in neat rows. Through the windows, the football field stretched exactly as it had during my high school years, the bleachers still missing slats in the same places. The strange overlay of past and present made me momentarily dizzy, as though I'd slipped between timelines.

“As Mr. Patterson mentioned before he left for his wife's new job in Denver, we'll be focusing on narrative voice this semester.” I moved to the whiteboard, writing the day's objective. “How authors choose who tells their stories, and why that choice matters.”

A hand shot up in the front row—a girl with immaculate braids and an expression of intense focus.

“Yes?”

“Are you the Ethan Webb who wroteThe Cartographer's Dream?” she asked, brandishing a paperback from her backpack. “My mom has all your books.”

So much for easing into my identity. “I am, yes. But today, I'm just your English teacher.”

“Why would you quit being a famous author to teach high school?” called a boy from the back, not bothering to raise his hand. “Seems like a serious downgrade.”

The bluntness of the question caught me off guard, but also cut through the performance I'd been trying to maintain. These kids would see through any sanitized explanation.

“That's actually relevant to today's topic,” I said, setting down my lesson plan. “Voice isn't just about technical choices on a page. It's about authenticity. I left publishing because I'd lost mine.”

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