The day that I was 2,000 miles away from home

I got a severe cold the day I was 2,000 miles away from home. That day, I finally went back to my grandpa’s house, two thousand miles east, saying goodbye to my twenty-year-old home. The Siberian wind bit my fingers and stabbed needles on the back of my neck. The road home was tiring, but I couldn’t help to think about the chair that my daughter made for me.
I love to play the violin. Every day at home, my daughter would sit there and look to me in her beautiful eyes and ask if I had a new song for her. I would answer of course and play the new song that I’ve been creating all the time on the way back home. One day, my little girl was crying. I asked her why. She cried and said that she felt guilty for always sitting down while I stood up and played such a heavy instrument. I laughed and said why don’t you make a chair for Dad. I didn’t care much more, but the next day, I saw her thumbling between the wooden sticks and asking our neighbors to help. It was an interesting sight to see: a little girl and an old carpenter working secretly on a project.

It was that Thursday I rushed home watching news of the attack. It said the bomb landed just around my neighborhood. I closed my eyes hoping that the old gentlemen protected my daughter. I arrived in front of my apartment. There were loose scraps of wood everywhere, and the air was filled with a grayish hue. I saw that wooden chair in the center of the room, but all I needed was my daughter. I dig between the loose rocks, threw everything out of the way.
“It can’t be, It can’t be”

But at that moment, no matter how strong I was, I couldn’t push back the force of time. The old gentlemen shielding my daughter’s body, and my daughter protecting my violin. They all had accidentally walked out of time, and once they’ve escaped, they are forever imprisoned on that timeline. And I am still moving on, getting pushed by the force of time. I could still feel the warmth of her small hands guiding mine as we strung together the first splintered stick. As I stood there, I sat down on my daughter’s gift and performed one last violin song for her.

Years passed. Some soldiers came and drank coffee on the chair. Some tourists came to revisit this story. But I was two thousand miles away from my home. I wish the cold could take me to my daughter.