Truth is Fragile...Preception is Shifting

My dear son, I made this journal for you in case I am ever gone. May the journey within these pages offer you comfort and guide you in seeking the truths of our past. I love you deeply and always will. As you read, ponder this question: “What truths lie beneath the surface of what we know?”

“A person who never made mistakes has never tried anything new.”

Never try to be perfect. Make mistakes. As long as you learn from them, you will keep growing. I remember when I was around ten, desperately trying to build the perfect treehouse with my father. Every nail was placed with the precision we thought perfection demanded. Yet, each error—whether it was a crooked plank or a misplaced beam—taught us something vital. It was through blunders that we bonded and grew together. Eventually, the lopsided structure became a place of laughter and learning. A testament to growth through imperfection.

“If you genuinely love someone, don't ever decorate their eyes with tears, their ears with lies, and their heart with a wound.”

“Never discuss cheese with rats, talk bread with birds, or make moves with a snake.”

Be careful who you trust, but keep your heart open.

“It's okay to clap for your friends if their dream takes off before yours.”

“Even with friends and family, don't share everything.”

Much Love,

Sharpe

_ quotes and observations, “A Sharpe Life”

He set the cups down just as a gentle breeze swept over the pool, once a battered metal tank that Billy had transformed. The morning air was crisp. Beneath the striped canvas, Billy and Aunt Jet gazed out at fields of flowers dancing beyond the water. Their fragrance drifted in, soothing and sweet, blending with the warmth of earth and wood, and a faint, smoky memory of charcoal lingering from days gone by.

“You have done wonders around here, Billy,” Aunt Jet said, raising her cup to cheer.

They clinked their mugs as Billy smiled.

“It's starting to feel like home,” he replied.

“You are truly an artist. Just look at what you've done.”

It wasn't large by any means, but Billy had completely altered the interior of the lava dome. High above them, at the crown of the intrados, its interior curve, the occulus bathed the space with light. Its circular shape punctured the darkness of the petrified magma. Beams, hand-hewn and heavy, circled it, then arced to the floor at intervals.

It felt like rhythm capturing time.

Rustic pieces assembled from found objects and worn tools adorned the space. An inward curve created a private bathing area. Holes drilled through, lined with bottles, created a pattern in light. White-washed with lime, mesquite at their feet, comforted you with a gentle tug from nature. It felt and looked like Billy.

She winked at him from across her cup.

Billy lowered his drink and wrapped both hands around the mug. It was an added security as he fought through his nerves. He peered at his aunt. She was relaxed, calm, taking in the splendor of the house,the land, and the dancing of the blooms.

“Tell me about Dad,” he said softly, returning his gaze to his mug.

She lowered her drink and looked towards Billy. A smile crossed her lips. She could see he was in pain, confused, and feeling alone again. How she wished his father were still here. Not for selfish reasons, but because she saw how each was so alike, and she missed him dearly.

“Your father, my brother--- was the nicest man I ever knew,” she said, patting his hand.

“You are so like him. Smart, kind--- gentle.”

Billy shifted, raising his eyes from under his brow.

“What did he do?--- What was Praxus?” he asked tentatively.

She tilted her head as her eyes moistened.

“I see it is time for answers.”

She took a sip, readjusted her bonnet, and rose from the table. Leaning against a timber, looking out towards the pool, she told the story of the past--- of Sharpe Sabre.

“Even as a child, your father had a gentle way about him. Quiet and calm. He was a thinker. He asked lots of questions. He proposed ideas. Ruston, your grandfather, saw the potential in him as a great philosopher. He prepared him a path for school.”

She paused, ever thoughtful, and continued.

“He had a brilliant mind, always tinkering and trying to come up with new solutions to make life easier. He had a knack--- a gift with devices and machines. He could see how to refine them. Even in advanced studies, he excelled and was recruited by many firms. Praxus arrived on his radar and proceeded to nab him up. They were close by, which made it an easy decision.”

Billy interrupted. “Close by? I thought I always lived here.”

“No,” she said softly. “You came to Raingate after the accident. Yes, you are from Hollowstone, but you lived in Chaunwallow. Below the 'Falls of Tears.'”

Billy looked confused. Why didn't he remember this?

“Tell me more about Praxus,” he said, turning to his drink.

She continued.

“They were a think tank, a mastermind, a hive of individuals like your father--- smart, kind, generous to a fault. They just wanted to make things better, easier, and simpler for the world. The idea was grand and was working. They were changing things. Learning, building, and learning some more. Each idea adds to the success of the last. It did make life better. Then something happened. His last project, I don't know what it was, failed. Your mother was visiting. I think she was there for lunch. She loved him so. Then the explosion took them. Gone in a flash, along with Praxus.”

Billy listened intently. He watched her as she looked at the flowers and reflected on the events.

“What was Empirium?” he asked.

She turned to face him, the color leaving her face. “How do you know that name?”

He looked up at her meekly.

“You kids and searching. Just 'Doozee' it. Need to know something? Look on 'Doozee.' ”

She grinned.

“I wanted to know more, so Kei hunted on the 'Shadow Channel' and the name came up.”

“'The Shadow Channel'?" turning in shock.

“Don't go there! Fake! Subversive. Could be trouble. Don't believe everything you see there. It is designed to stir you up.”

He looked at her, still pleading.

“I don't know Empirium. Never heard of it,” she said, turning back to the field.

Billy knew she wasn't telling the truth, but wasn't sure how to force it out of her.

“Who is Haldan Bard?”

Again, she looked back at him, surprise on her face. She sighed and returned to the table. Sitting, she grabbed his hand and held it firmly. Her emotions were rising. She felt anger and fear, but it wasn't directed towards Billy.

“Just what is it you found out? What did it say?”

Billy proceeded to tell her about 'untruth,' the 'gloaming,' and what the 'shadow channel' showed them. How 'fringe nets' opened images of Sharpe's life, the explosion, and the final warning from the nameless face in the hood.

She exhaled, “I don't know what to say.”

He reached across the table for her hand.

“It said they were murdered--- executed.”

She scoffed.

“They weren't murdered, Billy. It was an accident. Don't believe all of this. See, it's making you question what you know to be true. Your father mixed something volatile, and it---” she trailed off, lowering her eyes. They were filled with tears. A drop fell to the tabletop. It was the only sound they heard.

Billy squeezed her hand.

“Tell me who Haldan is.”

She raised her face and studied her nephew. Her son.

She had been dealing with her pain, but she was more able to handle it. She was much older when it happened to her. She lost a brother, but Billy lost his world. He was so young at the time that she didn't talk about it very much, but she also thought it would become distant. He would get farther from it. She knew all too well the ebb and flow, the cycles of grief, but she never took the time to see that, at ten years old, he would have a long and hard journey.

She remembered his missteps. The drinking, drugs, medicinal pipes, and more. Emotions extreme. And seeking love from all the wrong men. It led him to a loss of identity, of who he was. Like part of him was missing.

Guilt hit him hard.

As if he were to blame for the accident, that somehow he was at fault. He held that belief for fifteen years. He was there that day. Playing with his father’s machines.

He needed answers.

He needed truth, no matter the cost.

And his heart had been asking questions a long time.

He had made great strides. She didn't want to see it end. She knew the stakes, and so did Billy. She studied this brilliant, smart, amazing young man across from her. Eyes so much like his father's. Eyes that were bright, but shadowed.

Shadowed by the pain of loss.

Shadowed by not knowing the truth.

Shadowed by blame.

“Haldan Bard was your father's personal assistant,” she said, rising to get them more to drink.

She returned to the table and refilled their mugs.

“The last I knew, now mind you, it has been a time. He was living in the 'Winds.'”

Billy became surprised.

“I guess have your friend Kei do a 'Doozee' search for him,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Find out where he is. Get your answers.”

“I can't go see him, you need me here—— to help with the harvest.”

“Yes, I do,” she replied, “But after--- you can decide.”

She again looked at him. Protective and fearful.

“I know you want to know, you deserve the truth. You have too many questions.”

She came around to him. Bending forward, she hugged him firmly into her breast.

“Be careful of the past, Billy-- it can destroy your future.”

The haunting phrase lingered. He knew she still knew more, holding secrets out of fear. Something was making her hold back.

He had to know.

It was time to decide.

Continue or quit while he still can.

* * *

The whisper walked through the air, rippling Billy's jacket.

It raced down the hill, through the cemetery, a hiss of grass bowing under the gust. He paused, catching the unexpected clang of a loose gate echoing in the distance —a metallic disturbance mingling with the faint taste of rain on his lips, deepening the chill in his bones. He stood before the grave, arms rigid at his sides, staring at the name carved into the stone. His jaw ached, holding it tense with anger, eyes following the letters that were his father’s name.

“You should be here,” he said, the words raw in his throat. Breaths escaping as small bursts of condensation.

His voice vanished into the emptiness, swallowed by the wind. He hated the silence, how only the wind answered. Another gust pressed against him, moving through the markers, whistling low and mournful. He pressed his trembling hand to the cold stone, forcing it still.

“I'm tired of carrying this,” he whispered. “All of it. Alone.”

A hesitant thought crossed his mind.

"What made them kill you?"

The raw question echoed in his heart.

The faint hope that things could be different, that maybe he'd still be here, his father. Still arguing, still guiding, was snuffed out by the reality that settled back over him. Unaware, his fingers touched his father’s name on the stone, tracing each letter. Absently, unconsciously, adding to his melancholy—— fraying with each one.

His anger flared. He yanked his hand back, curling it into a fist.

“Damn you--- leaving me to fight this.”

He slammed his fist into its top.

Knuckles scraped the hewn edge.

Damn the whole world for taking everything that matters and expecting me to keep standing. Beneath the anger, the truth bared itself, raw and aching.

“I’m terrified of being nothing without you.”

His fingers clenched tighter, nails biting into the flesh of his palm, as if holding on was the only way to keep from unraveling completely. A memory flickered—of summer days spent fishing by the lake, his father laughing as they reeled in their catch, sunlight dancing on the water's surface.

A shudder passed through him, his breath catching—a brittle sound, like dry leaves crumbling underfoot. He should have more memories— more time with his dad. More lessons learned, more knowledge passed to him.

His chest heaved.

Fury buried, arms rigid once again.

Knuckles white as bone in clinched fists.

Tears he refused to shed blurred the edges of the marker.

The ache of absence, raw as the first day.

He dragged the back of his wrist across his eyes. Angry at himself for even that, seeing the scar--- being reminded once again.

“I don't know if I can do this,” he said softly, his voice lost to the wind.

His throat tightened with sorrow. Against his will, the words that followed came tender.

"I don’t know if I can fix this, but I'll try--- because you can't--- Because someone has to."

An immense silence enveloped him, profound and unmoving, as if the universe held its breath.

He reached out, touching the marker.

A tear spilled onto his cheek. His back straighter, he set his shoulders, and again the whisper walked through the air, this time pushing against him. It held his jacket, trying to hold him in place. He knew what he had to do. He just wasn’t sure if he was capable.

“I will find out, Dad. And the place I have to start with is Haldan.”

He turned his back on the grave, contemplation stirring within.

A decision lay ahead, perhaps a resolve to find out what really happened, seek those answers he so desperately needed. He struggled with this for a long time, bearing the blame, feeling responsible.

Now he was determined to find out.

The clouds were approaching, dark and turbulent, rising on their own dynamic forces, rising within Billy. Forces that were in motion, ever changing and unpredictable, just like the path before him. Would he seek truths buried in shadows and confront the looming storm head-on? Whatever path he chose, it promised to be as fierce and unpredictable as the future itself.

The whisper walked through the air, rippling Billy’s jacket as he closed the gate behind him, approaching what the future might bring.