Of the father and son, one lay down while the other sat.
Among the countless paths left by fate, this was as common a scene as any:
You stood to welcome his birth, lifting him high; he would sit beside your bed to see you off when you were old.
The black cat doctor had said that the family should talk to Mr. Eisen more, as this would help him gather his consciousness and awaken.
Richard was usually talkative. He was cheerful and outgoing, sincere and warm toward everyone around him. Yet sitting here, when he needed to put his eloquence to full use, he became strangely tongue-tied.
After saying, "I still have to take you to the Pastry Shop, Memphis," Richard fell into a long silence.
The person lying before him was clearly one of the closest people in his life, yet when he lowered his head and studied that face, every part of it seemed unfamiliar.
Looking back, the scenes of family warmth and parental companionship in Richard's memories had not lasted very long.
He had long grown used to the father who always locked himself in his study. Whether he was home made little difference; Richard hardly even noticed.
Some roles, however, needed to be shaped, cultivated, and maintained, while others came with an inherent sanctity and established standing.
Between lovers or spouses, a prolonged absence could easily scatter the supposed happiness of the past to the winds. Once each grew accustomed to their present life, returning to the past seemed unnecessary;
but parents sometimes gave to an extravagant degree, while at other times, their role could be excessively simple.
So simple that as long as you were still alive, I was a child who had parents.
Richard had been happy throughout his childhood and adolescence. He