When you get back to the House, you and Father go your separate ways without another word.
When you get back to your room, the House has reset itself. Your bedroom is back the way you've always remembered it: one set of clothes in the closet, one pillow on the bed.
You and Father pass each other in the hall occasionally over the next several days without speaking. But this is nothing unusual for the two of you. Father has never been one for small talk.
And then one morning you come into the dining room to find him eating breakfast and reading the newspaper. You go into the kitchen to pour yourself a cup of coffee and join him at the table.
After several quiet moments, Father folds his paper and turns to face you. "So what did you think of your first extended experience with time travel?"
"I failed."
"Yes, you did."
"What did I do wrong?" you ask him.
"Who says you did anything wrong?"
"I did everything wrong," you say, fighting to keep your voice level.
Father shrugs. "You can always keep trying."
"What would be the point?"
Father glares at you. "Are you still on about that? I keep telling you, there is no point. There's no such thing as a point. Things just happen."
"But the House –"
"House or not, we’re still as subject to the whims of fate as anyone else."
"But we can go back," you say. "We can change things."
"Yes, we can."
"We can go back and make things right."
Father leans forward onto his elbows. "We can also make things worse."
"And then just go back and try again."
"Yes, we can," he agrees. "But why does that give you the impression that we have any sort of control over how things play out?"
You shrug. "I guess I . . . I just assumed it was the natural order of things. That I would go back and everything would reset itself to the way it was supposed to be."
Father actually chuckles when you say this. It's perhaps the third time in your life you've heard him laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"You're telling me you want the House to change the flow of events, but then you assume there's a way things are 'supposed' to be?" He shakes his head wryly. "You can't have it both ways."
The comment leaves you speechless. So simple, so obvious, and yet you've never seen it.
"Just because we have more choices than most people do, it doesn’t mean that we are free. Just because we have access to a greater number of possibilities, it doesn’t mean that everything is possible."
"Then what's the point of –"
Father arches an eyebrow at you, stopping you midsentence. "'Point?'"
All objections, all emotions drain out of you at once.
Father leans back in his seat and says to you very quietly – almost gently: "Having more choices is not the same thing as having more choice."
You sit there quietly for a long time. Father leaves you to your thoughts. He doesn't leave the room. He doesn't pick up the newspaper again. He just sits across the table, watching you closely.
You feel suddenly naked, afraid, vulnerable. An icy chill creeps down your spine.
THE END