( Her voice is a whisper as she realigns realities within herself. She stumbles over the evidence, hastily looking for whichever bit or piece could explain why the small boy she had so carefully dressed in baby-bright colours this morning now stands before her, grown or at least nearly grown. It is him, there is no arguing that – she couldn't possibly look into her own son's eyes and not recognise them.
None of that tells her how in the world this is possible, though.
Well, if the answer won't come, pick a different problem. Even if it is a problem that makes her blood run cold, because there is an innate heartbreak to seeing him like this, hearing his voice so heavy and choked, standing glued to the spot. He should be barely three and bumbling happily into the room and onto her lap. He should be his own age, maybe a little awkward, enduring some motherly attention like having his collar straightened and hugging her before he's off with some friends. Instead he stands, bereft, and she feels the way the story ends before she even knows it.
She stands, then, and takes a few cautious steps towards him, open but unsure if she can touch him. Part of her feels as though she might cry, she can feel the tears rising in her eyes, but another part refuses. )
Don't tell your father but I think we broke the space-time-continuum.
( She tries to make it sound light, it's what she always does when he's is about to cry and she wants to cheer him up, plus she is smiling, smiling up at him, where was she while he had grown like that. She takes a deep breath, trying to contain herself. )
no subject
( Her voice is a whisper as she realigns realities within herself. She stumbles over the evidence, hastily looking for whichever bit or piece could explain why the small boy she had so carefully dressed in baby-bright colours this morning now stands before her, grown or at least nearly grown. It is him, there is no arguing that – she couldn't possibly look into her own son's eyes and not recognise them.
None of that tells her how in the world this is possible, though.
Well, if the answer won't come, pick a different problem. Even if it is a problem that makes her blood run cold, because there is an innate heartbreak to seeing him like this, hearing his voice so heavy and choked, standing glued to the spot. He should be barely three and bumbling happily into the room and onto her lap. He should be his own age, maybe a little awkward, enduring some motherly attention like having his collar straightened and hugging her before he's off with some friends. Instead he stands, bereft, and she feels the way the story ends before she even knows it.
She stands, then, and takes a few cautious steps towards him, open but unsure if she can touch him. Part of her feels as though she might cry, she can feel the tears rising in her eyes, but another part refuses. )
Don't tell your father but I think we broke the space-time-continuum.
( She tries to make it sound light, it's what she always does when he's is about to cry and she wants to cheer him up, plus she is smiling, smiling up at him, where was she while he had grown like that. She takes a deep breath, trying to contain herself. )