Again.

"I wonder how you'll write this."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You know, in your little blog."

First of all, this event is uncommon. The fact that her father is even mentioning something beyond
his old knowledge of technology is always uncommon. Then again, he is nothing but a scientist so
she guesses that he has became curious about something his daughter loves so much she calls it her
child.

It takes sometime between his inquiry and her respond that he coughs a little; wanting to get her
attention back from whatever thought that's making her smile that amused little smile. A curve that
seems holding up her answer because how warmth and fondness have stolen her ability to express
sentences.

A raised eyebrow finally lift up a lump that lodge in her throat, a lump of nostalgia of the last time he
was curious about her hobby was a week before her departure from the lab; from his life, from her
life.

The disaster that followed a cold parting goodbye from him still left him clutching at her hand
sometimes, thumbs on the underside of her arms; searching for that reassuring pulse that, besides
of her chatter and breathing, is a sign that she is here. Alive and well.

He is doing that again now, his hand softly covering her wrist. Her right hand, the one which doesn't
have an iv line on.

"I think there will be a lot curse words directed at you," she settles on a funny line, because if she
tells the truth, she doesn't think she'll be able to hold back the tears that dare to well up. The little
prick.

He smiles at that, knowing full well it is his doing that she becomes addicted to swear words. He pats
her head and rest his head on the hospital bed, next to her arm. She is not obliged to be there for
that long but a rest for the afternoon seems heavenly and the traffic is a nightmare at this hour
anyway. Best to wait a bit to go home from their routine of donating blood in the local venue.

It's a funny thing, really. A routine. It can mean a mundane daily things, something that you just do,
domesticity even. Nothing to think over about, nothing to be flustered about. Yet it does, because it
screams familiarity, closeness, or something equally warm inducing noun; it means to be known,
unintentionally, because you don't spell out your routine to some strangers in hope that it'll make
you know each other better, it is something that is observed over the weeks, months, years, that it
just becomes known to each other. Something that is earned, never given.

So this earned routine is something they always follows by dinner at the same exact spot; a table in
front of the big window of an old Italian restaurant near their apartment. A place where apparently,
where her fathers met for the first time. When sparks flew, so to speak if you are a romantic. Her
father never admit it, that the place brings more sweet memories than he let on, but the quiet smile
and sometimes faraway looks leave no question about his opinion of the place. They dine together,
never chatter much beyond one or two glasses of wine for her father and cups of tea for Ellenore,
because the early start the next day. A tomb of Henry Milles is waiting for their stories after all. A
slow sweet parting, an exchange to the usually lively chat the three had. They still have it, only now
Milles will always be a silent listener; not that much different from the old days when he would just
smile and listened to the banter between his two lovely scientist debating about everything. He
could never take sides though; one could never choose between one's husband and one's daughter.
It would be favouritism and a lecturer should know better than to start little fire. So he smiled,
laughing when it made the two people arguing pouted because his neutrality rendered their banters
stale, again. However now the banters subside, as Ellenore knows better than to let her father worry
from the grave. They are often quiet, just embracing each other beside the grave and reminiscing
their old times. The few months that Ellenore spent before Mr. Milles’ death was enough to love
him, it makes her wonder just how hollow her father feels right now. She just wonders though,
doesn't dare to actually think about it because she knows she is not yet that strong. The evident of
years of fighting unenlightened masses shows as hardened lines in her father's face. Mr. Hammond
does have eyes sharp as an eagle, looking sharper still as the lines of age carefully contour his face.
Always in a permanent state of scowl unless some idiot try something funny then it will become
believably murderous. Yet all it seems to Ellenore is endearing. Maybe because she has endured the
harsh gaze and long rant from the man but maybe also because she knows he has a soft spot for his
daughter. He never denies her cookies after all. Even after a full meal; even when he is working. His
hands will move to adjust bits of temperature and timer or writing notes and one hand will wanders
of to the cookie jar Ellenore has left him. He secretly loves it, how she knows to add a dash of citrus
in it, to switch it from sweet to savoury time and time again so his brain will do that little wiggly
happy dance every time he bites the cookies. Or he thinks it is a secret. The little wiggly happy dance
turns out is rather demonstrative than imaginative; Ellenore has taken notice and always waits for
15 minutes after her father hums to watch her father lights up in yet another surprise of her
cooking. Her delights will last for days.

Now that both of them have left the college that brought their names to fame, their life have been
easier, to say the least. It turns out community college is far more accepting of minority and will
gladly accept both of them as lecturer. While the pay is not much but the time it gives them to write
is marvellous.

The first one to write is Ellenore. After the life changing experience of having almost died, she
started the blog as her therapist suggested; to lift off some burden she said. So she does. She writes,
and turns out. Yes. It does feels lighter after pouring everything that has been stifling her emotional
growth ever since a child. Her father, Mr. Hammond, has taken notice, and given that his first books
is still on display as best seller in many bookshops including the prestigious one just around the
corner of the street that actually have peer reviewed every books it sells, he tries his hand on
another.

Another book comes out, another entries, and soon they are no longer hermits in a lab but hermits
in studies; different ones because Ellenore loves her comfy sofa and laptop while Mr. Hammond
loves nice paperbacks and a good wooden desk, but writers nonetheless.

It is on 25th May that she finally decides on writing the issue which had turned both of their life
around. The one year anniversary of her dark hour, as she calls it. The reason her father curls his
hand around her wrist, just above the scar she made a year ago, on the same date. Little did she
know that her father had done so before her.

There was siren. It was supposed to be loud but he could only hear his own loud breathing. How his
own brain had deliberately told him to breath in and out, in and out again like it was not something
that his body will voluntarily did on its own. How could he. When his heart stopped the moment he
got into the apartment. He meant to apologise, to take back every harsh word he said at the airport.
He was tired, the board was closing in on his resignation and he was bludgeoning his way through
sheer willpower and ego.

And fuck his ego and idealism. It had, evidently, cost him two hearts that loved him very much. No
reputation could substitute a husband and a daughter. He had been a right fool. Right from the start
he should have known, an impact was not made by an institution. It was by brilliant minds scattered
around the world, without any prestigious alma mater attached to it. Yet why it was so hard to let go
the thing that had raised his name in the scientific world? Easier access to fundraiser? His colleagues
had all but sabotage him. Even the few that had been supportive were finally lost in the battle of
minority vs majority. Those bigoted majority. He could see it, he could hear it. How the memory of
her laughter dimmed along with the blood that seeped through her cuff, not even properly rolled
up. She was in a hurry, fit of rage it seemed; or desperation. He couldn't really tell as he only saw
red. There was just so much blood.

He knew he wailed. Called the ambulance and hugged her as tightly as he could, using his body to
shield her soul from leaving her body. If that was a possible thing. It felt like hours before the medics
and paramedics had tear him off from her limp body. His shoulder was shaking, a chant of "I'm
sorry"s never leaving his mouth as he climbed the ambulance for the longest ride to the hospital.
Weirdly, Ellenore looked peaceful. As if she was just expecting this much from the world, as if
everything that happened was bound to happen anyway. An expected cruel disappointment from
life. Did he put that smile on her? Did he? Did he just turned a cold shoulder on a hoping stare,
believing stare and asked her to leave and never to return again?

Yes he did. This monster did.

He didn't feel like less of a monster the next day, when Ellenore's heart was beating along side with
the beeping of the monitor and her pale face no longer screamed death. He clutched at her hand, at
the bandage around her wrist. He could feel him frowning. He knew he was scaring the nurses but
the bitterness at the back of his tongue would not go away. Every time he slept, he'd be startled
awake by the image of bathroom tiles full of blood and he was drowning with Ellenore's tomb tied to
his ankles. Bile raised up and he would choke. On the second day he had gone with little sleep and
no food, Ellenore had woken up only to scowl at him, tutting at his hollowed cheeks and when was
the last time he eat, really? He couldn't speak. Just relieve washing over him of hearing his
daughter's voice again. He wept then. The chant started again and not long after he was embraced
by strong hands. Ellenore's. His daughter's.

He couldn't pin point who cried louder as the room just filled with sobs and "sorry"s and "I know"s
before they exhausted themselves and drifted off to sleep. Ellenore on the hospital bed and him on
the side, head rested near his daughter's arm. Never had a beeping of monitor became such a sweet
lullaby for him.

He never really forgive himself for the incident, even though Ellenore had stated otherwise on
numerous occasions. It had became something he just had to learn to let go time and time again. Or
maybe just lock it up somewhere near his chest to be a bitter, never to be repeated lesson. One
thing that has cemented itself in his brain though, is to never trade loved ones with anything.

Never again.