Aurora - Parte 12

The next morning, the psychologist's house looked exactly as it always had.

It was a pleasant home, typical of an ordinary family. Soft morning light came through the kitchen window. There was a wooden table, a few photographs on the wall, a sink full of little things left over from the night before, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee spreading through the rooms.

Nothing in that house reminded her of the military camp.

The psychologist was preparing lunch for her husband and daughter while he finished his coffee.

— Did you feed the dog?

Her husband paused for a moment.

— Not yet.

She looked at him.

— You never feed that dog.

— I was going to.

— Of course you were.

Their daughter, sitting at the table, started laughing.

Her husband looked at her, then at his wife.

— He's survived this long.

— Because I feed him.

She closed her daughter's backpack and put the lunch inside.

Looking out the window, she noticed a few birds in the garden.

— And you didn't leave any seeds in the feeder, either.

— I forgot.

— You always forget.

She pointed at the little container attached near the window.

— I like watching the birds.

— I know.

— Then leave some seeds in there.

— All right.

— I'll buy some today.

She went back to preparing everything.

For a few seconds, everything seemed so ordinary that it was almost difficult to believe that just a few hours earlier, she had been inside a camp surrounded by soldiers, researchers, and equipment trying to understand a girl who simply floated.

Her daughter moved the bread around on her plate.

— I don't want to go to school.

The psychologist looked at her.

— You're going.

— I don't want to.

— Why not?

— Because I don't want to.

She took a deep breath.

— I'll pick you up today.

The girl looked up.

— Promise?

— I promise.

— For real?

— For real.

Her daughter crossed her arms.

— You always say that.

The psychologist stopped.

— What do you mean?

— You say you'll pick me up, and then you're late.

Her husband raised an eyebrow.

He said nothing.

Their daughter continued.

— I have to wait there all by myself.

The psychologist looked at her husband.

He simply kept his eyebrow raised, as if agreeing with their daughter without needing to say a word.

— I'm not that late.

The girl looked at him.

— You are.

He gave a discreet nod.

The psychologist let out a small sigh.

— All right. Today I'll pick you up on time.

— Really on time?

— On time.

— Before everyone else?

— Before everyone else.

The girl finally seemed satisfied.

Her husband picked up his coffee cup.

— I think she won.

— You're not helping.

— I'm just observing.

The psychologist picked up her own cup and remained silent for a few seconds.

Without realizing it, she looked out the window again.

A bird landed on the empty seed feeder.

It stayed there for a few seconds.

Then it flew away.

She thought of Aurora.

Weeks.

It had been weeks since the apparition had appeared and remained in the same place.

Still.

Floating.

Watching.

And despite all the military equipment, the scientists, the tests, the theories, and the people arriving from everywhere to see her, nothing had happened.

Aurora was still there.

As if she were waiting for something.

Or as if she weren't waiting for anything at all.

— Mom?

She turned back to her daughter.

— What is it?

— Are you listening to me?

— I am.

— So you're going to pick me up today.

The psychologist smiled.

— I am.

The girl picked up her backpack.

— Promise?

— I promise.

This time, her husband raised his eyebrow again.

She looked at him.

— Don't even start.

He smiled.

Their daughter headed out first.

The psychologist remained in the kitchen for a few seconds, looking out the window at the garden.

Then she picked up her keys.

That morning, her biggest concern was making it on time to pick up her daughter.

And for the first time in weeks, that felt like something very important.

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