The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 20

Vincent glanced over and noticed his son's face was even darker than the stormy sky outside. He easily guessed what was on his mind.

"Sloane probably just headed back to the States early. The cell reception is always spotty when she travels; that's why she hasn't called."

Rosemary scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, please. When has she ever been reliable?"

Quinn stepped forward, gently guiding Vincent into the living room. "Mom, Dad, don't stress over it. Sloane has her own things to take care of."

"Hmph! What things? She doesn't even have a real job. All she does all day is swim!"

"Swimming is perfectly fine, it keeps you healthy," Vincent mediated. "Besides, if she hadn't been such a strong swimmer, they might never have saved Archie..."

He shot a warning look at Garrison, who was standing there in absolute silence, and then glared at his wife. Catching the hint, Rosemary finally snapped her mouth shut.

After dinner, Archie sat cross-legged on the living room rug, a brand-new medical truck Lego set spread out in front of him.

"Do you like it, Archie? Quinn bought it just for you, a special prize for being so brave and beating your sickness!"

Archie nodded. "I love it."

He snapped a few blocks together before abruptly pausing. He looked around the room, turning to Garrison who was sitting on the couch. "Dad, where's Mom? Why isn't she coming to see the truck I built?"

Garrison, who had been absentmindedly flipping through a medical journal, froze. The movement was barely noticeable.

Before he could answer, Quinn walked over carrying a plate of fruit. Flashing a radiant smile, she crouched down and stroked Archie's hair. "Mom had an emergency at work and had to fly back home. Do you miss her? Look, Quinn also got you a brand-new telescope! We can look at the stars tonight. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

Archie was instantly distracted by the shiny new telescope. Beaming, he eagerly followed Quinn to his bedroom to set it up...

He shifted onto his side. Suddenly, a faint, familiar—yet strangely distant—scent drifted into his senses. It wasn't the sharp bite of hospital antiseptic, nor was it Quinn's elegant, refined perfume. It was an incredibly subtle aroma of warm fabric, a hint of fresh fruit and florals, and the softest trace of vanilla.

His entire body locked up.

Then, almost unconsciously, he buried his face deeper into the pillow and took a long, desperate breath. That barely-there scent crashed through his emotional barriers like a warm tide. The iron-clad tension in his neck and shoulders imperceptibly began to melt away.

Garrison didn't move again.

His breathing gradually slowed. The maddening anxiety of the past few days, the relentless pressure of winning the Nobel Prize, and the tangled mess of his own emotions were inexplicably soothed by her lingering scent.

And so, holding the pillow that still carried her ghost, on that freezing, snowy Swedish night—

He finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.