At the close of September, a funeral procession drifted slowly along the mistfilled lanes of the old Manchester cemetery, the black carriage creaking under the weight of a coffin. Victor Harper bowed his head, stumbling forward as if the world beneath his feet were a shifting carpet, his mind a fog of unanswered questions. He felt no pulse in himself, as though he were already dead, and somewhere inside the oakcapped box lay a version of him that had never lived.
Eighteen years earlier, in the dustclouded playground of St.Clements Primary, Victor and Ethan Clarke had squabbled during recess, fists flashing like thunder. A crowd of boys roared, halfchanting Give it to Ethan! and half urging Hit him, Victor! The fight reached a grotesque climax when Ethan clamped his teeth around the other’s ear; the wounded boy shrieked, clutched his ear, and the bout fell silent. Blood dotted Victors cheek as the school bell rang, and the boys, panting, stared at each other, the tension dissolving into uneasy truce.
From that day onward, the two became inseparable. Victor, the model pupil, always raised his hand first; Ethan, a perpetual underachiever, was forever scolded by teachers and teased by classmates. For ten years they shared a single wooden desk, discovering a bewildering number of common interests. Both fell simultaneously for Cressida Blake, a slender, goldenhaired girl from the neighboring class whose eyes were as blue as winter lakes. She danced with a grace that seemed to pull the very air, and the boys raced to catch glimpses of her, each hoping she would choose him. Cressida, however, lingered in indecision, never favoring one over the other, and the school years slipped by like a dream.
When graduation arrived, each set off on a different path. Victor yearned for university, but the fierce competition and his modest familys finances meant he could not afford a tuition fee in pounds. He settled for a technical college instead. Ethan, born into a comfortable household, cared little for scholarly pursuits; he took an apprenticeship at a local garage, a decision that soon proved shrewd. Cressida, unwilling to sit still, joined a touring dance troupe abroad, chasing a onceinalifetime chance to earn her keep.
Although they scattered across England and beyond, they kept in touch through phone calls, each update a thin thread stitching their lives together. Victor and Ethan met most often, spending evenings in dim cafés and electric clubs, where Ethan constantly tried to tempt Victor with reckless thrills. Life seemed to swirl in a perpetual whirl.
After college, Victor went to work at a Manchester factory while studying parttime at a distancelearning university. Ethan, after three years of mastering the mechanics of cars, opened his own garage with his parents backing, eventually acquiring a sleek sports cara symbol of his burgeoning success.
Cressidas contract abroad expired after five years; she returned home, and the three old friends arranged a reunion, each nervous about who she might favor. They sat at a small table in a cosy pub, Victors heart hammering like a drum.
Ethan, look at this, Victor whispered, tugging at his shirt cuff, Does it look alright?
Dont worry, mate, Ethan replied coolly, as if the matter were trivial, Take a breath and have a drink for courage.
A voice floated down from above, bright and teasing, Goodness, you lads look dapper!
Hello, Cressida! Ethan said, pulling out her chair and bowing with a flourish, his hand brushing her wrist.
Hi! Victor muttered, his tongue stuck in his throat, and the night slipped into a haze of recollection.
Ethan spent the evening dancing with Cressida while Victor watched, his mind a carousel of doubts: What chance do I have? Ethans workshop, his flashy car, his steady incomewhile Im still living with my parents, scraping together a few pounds each month.
As the night grew darker, the boys escorted Cressida home, just as they had done in childhood. After several such evenings, Victor finally gathered the courage to propose. He stood at her doorstep, rehearsing his words, and rang the bell. Cressida opened, her smile lighting the hallway, and whispered, Yes, yes, yes! before kissing him.
Later, Victor told Ethan, What did she see in me? I have nothing to offer herjust my love and a modest apartment. He added, Im taking a leap, Ethan. Will you stand as my witness?
Ethan grinned, Of course, Victor. And you should knowI too tried to win her over once, but she turned me down.
Victor stared at his friend, confused. Why would she reject you? Youre successful, financially stable.
Ethan laughed, She chose the steady worker over the philanderer. Youre the reliable one now. They embraced, their laughter echoing through the night.
The wedding was a raucous celebration. Victor and Cressida moved into a new flat purchased with the pounds shed earned overseas. Victor felt slightly out of place, but Cressida teased, Dont worry, love. Youll be making breakfast in bed soon enough. She opened a dance studio, turning her passion into profit, and their domestic life settled into a pleasant rhythm.
Ethan never stayed far away; he became a close family friend, sometimes even a third wheel. He drove Cressida to markets, fetched her from work when the weather turned sour, and once escorted her to hospital after a rehearsal injury, all while Victors husband, Victor, worked long shifts. Neighbours, in whispered tones, hinted that Ethan was meddling, but Victor brushed it off, Stop, Victor, whats all this fuss?
One crisp autumn afternoon, a knock sounded at their door. Victor, its meEthans father, a deep voice announced. Its Ethan. Heshes died. The crash yesterday was fatal.
The words slammed into Victor like a cold wave; his throat clenched, his vision blurred. He could not breathe, his chest tight with grief. Cressida, eight months pregnant, tried to comfort him, but the loss was a chasm too wide. Victor attended the funeral alone, standing by the grave, his legs trembling, his eyes fixed on the smiling portrait of his friend.
Ethan, my mate, he whispered, his voice cracking, I thank the heavens for the years we shared. You were my constant, my confidant. I cant bear this emptiness. He pleaded, If theres any spirit left, let it return with the birth of our child. Bring Ethans soul back to us.
A year passed. Their son, ten months old, was named Ethan in honor of the lost friend. Victor marveled at the familiar curls, the mischievous glint in his eyes, even the tiny birthmark on his wristexactly where Ethans once had been. He whispered to the infant, Ethan, if its really you, show us youre here.
The baby gurgled, tugged at Victors hand, and then, unexpectedly, clutched his own ear with a tiny bite. Victor recoiled, a startled laugh escaping his lips, Is that you, old friend? The room filled with the surreal echo of a dream, the boundaries between memory and reality melting like fog over the moors.
