My Path to Magic

EPILOGUE

The monotonous rumble of wheels continued day and night—the transcontinental express barely made any stops. The conductor was perfectly polite and attentive after realizing his mistake. I flipped the pages of the deceased artisan’s notebooks, which Fox did not want to leave to NZAMIPS for some reason, and I tried to sort out my feelings.

My soul was dull, as if something had been stolen from me, but I could not understand what exactly. Amidst the pages of the notebooks, the last record in which was made twenty years ago, I discovered a large yellowed photograph. The age-faded picture rescued images of people posing on the background of a strange pedestal. A photographer must have captured the graduation moment of some educational institution: three teachers and eight students. Fox, young and cheerful, in a light coat with a handkerchief in the upper pocket, sat first to the left of the teachers. Behind the backs of those in the front row, a girl and boy were hugging; the boy’s face was carefully painted out. He wore a stylish black suit, and the girl looked vaguely familiar; the note on the reverse side read: Millicent MakKoran. It was my mother. Joe was not in the picture.

I couldn’t ignore so many oddities.

I thought if the artisan had told me anything, I would have not believed a word from him. But now I needed to know who my father was and how he died. Why had mother run with me into the backwoods? What was Uncle Gordon silent about, and what was that moronic book about, over which he was killed?

Outside the window rain transformed into wet snow—I was returning to Redstone.