4338.205 · July 24, 2018 AD
The Untouched Crossword
Rose knows something is wrong before anyone says so. Grandpa always does his crossword first thing — before the kettle boils, before anyone else gets a word in. But this morning it sits untouched beside his tea, and his hands are shaking like leaves before a storm. So when Grandma suggests building a spaceship out of cushions and Grandpa watches from the back steps wrapped in a blanket, Rose plays along. What else can she do?
Morning arrives with a sound that doesn't belong in dreams — a deep, rattling cough that echoes through the house like something breaking. Grandpa sits hunched at the kitchen table, grey-faced and trembling, his crossword untouched for the first time Rose can remember. Grandma washes the same plate three times and turns off the television when it mentions flu outbreaks in regional towns.
No one explains. No one says the words hovering at the edges of every silence. But Rose notices. Kids always notice.
So when Mack suggests building the HMS Marshmallow — a lunar insertion module constructed from every cushion in the lounge room — Rose throws herself into the mission. Moon gloves made of socks. Navigation systems made of Post-it notes. Grandma joining as Communications Officer, her smile thin but real for the first time all day.
Outside, the winter sun turns everything golden. They swing until their stomachs drop. They play Space Chase until their lungs burn. And Grandpa watches from the back steps, wrapped in his tartan blanket, coughing quietly into his elbow like he hopes no one will hear.
For one golden morning, everything almost feels normal. Almost.
