[ That leads to a messy road of astrophysics and the whole space-time continuum thing, because if they were to be returned to their place in time any differently or with a gap forming, things would simply fray and come undone. Perhaps not immediately, but it would throw off the whole "weave" of the universe, etc etc. A pause is the easiest way to describe what can be the only way their trip would work. Anything else would be absolutely disastrous on an unimaginable scale. ]
I hope so as well.
[ Her eyes follow his line of sight to the 'party' again, with the same sort of assessment and a hundred nuances in between; she can see those who are weary, those in pain, those favoring one leg over the other or the woman easing away from the louder section holding her head, having had enough to drink and enough fun from whatever game they were playing. She sees the occasional pet swerving between legs and she picks out familiar faces to her and assesses their state, if they're having a good time or not. (So far so good, at least.) The doctor's come to read crowds like a favorite book.
But Carl begins to speak and she finishes her cookie and fishes out another one, listening intently. He has her full attention. What he describes sounds like the typical science fiction zombie pandemic, and though her learnings have explained away any such possibilities, she has come to accept that other places and times were different. Some worlds simply follow different rules. He touches on his mother and has to take a moment, and she'll shift the bag of cookies to free up a hand to lay on his shoulder, a brief and gentle thing to offer an encouraging little squeeze before he continues on and she'll make to remove it if he tenses or moves away.
Above all, Angela knows what grief choked down looks like. And she feels for him. It's implicitly and intimately understood, the loss of a parent, though she won't mention it to him lest she tread on toes. ]
I see. I am sorry to hear that your world has taken such a turn; I can't begin to imagine. But I'm glad you have those you care about here with you, and that it sounds as though you've found a good place in such a world to begin rebuilding. People are always so much stronger than others give them credit for. Especially the younger generations.
[ A smile, with that, before it's her turn once more and he's eyeing the cookies— they're offered back in his vicinity with an almost casual nonchalance that they simply happened to be within his reach. ]
I suppose it will a little, but given time, it was only a few years of your life; it becomes a smaller and smaller fraction— myself, for example. I'm 39 years old, and 30 years ago I lost my parents to that war I had mentioned, but I still remember life before that. I remember when the war was at its worst, as well as the food my mother cooked and the stories and songs she gave me from our country, the manners and societal etiquette worked into me and my encouraged curiosity with the world. Yet now, where I stand, that was such a small portion of my life. Less than a quarter. They're fond memories and things you can pass onto your children and others important to you, if you hold onto them, much the same as cultures pass on their culinary techniques and fashion and language, their stories.
You mention soccer, but did you know that the activity and sport itself is hundreds of years old? I suppose if you wanted to get very technical, it originated in China thousands of years ago. It was passed down through all those years and eventually made it to you, in 2012, changed and refined and made into a worldwide sport. I know it is still around in 2076 as well. Who's to say it will stop with you, unless you don't keep it close to your heart?
You, my dear, have the ability to hold onto and pass on all those things you've enjoyed to those around you. You can use that to shape the world going forward with a wide-open mind. What you choose to present to the future is up to you. You say those things won't happen again, but how certain are you of that? If you really put your mind to it, do you think you wouldn't be able to recreate such things? Given the time and peace to do so.
no subject
I hope so as well.
[ Her eyes follow his line of sight to the 'party' again, with the same sort of assessment and a hundred nuances in between; she can see those who are weary, those in pain, those favoring one leg over the other or the woman easing away from the louder section holding her head, having had enough to drink and enough fun from whatever game they were playing. She sees the occasional pet swerving between legs and she picks out familiar faces to her and assesses their state, if they're having a good time or not. (So far so good, at least.) The doctor's come to read crowds like a favorite book.
But Carl begins to speak and she finishes her cookie and fishes out another one, listening intently. He has her full attention. What he describes sounds like the typical science fiction zombie pandemic, and though her learnings have explained away any such possibilities, she has come to accept that other places and times were different. Some worlds simply follow different rules. He touches on his mother and has to take a moment, and she'll shift the bag of cookies to free up a hand to lay on his shoulder, a brief and gentle thing to offer an encouraging little squeeze before he continues on and she'll make to remove it if he tenses or moves away.
Above all, Angela knows what grief choked down looks like. And she feels for him. It's implicitly and intimately understood, the loss of a parent, though she won't mention it to him lest she tread on toes. ]
I see. I am sorry to hear that your world has taken such a turn; I can't begin to imagine. But I'm glad you have those you care about here with you, and that it sounds as though you've found a good place in such a world to begin rebuilding. People are always so much stronger than others give them credit for. Especially the younger generations.
[ A smile, with that, before it's her turn once more and he's eyeing the cookies— they're offered back in his vicinity with an almost casual nonchalance that they simply happened to be within his reach. ]
I suppose it will a little, but given time, it was only a few years of your life; it becomes a smaller and smaller fraction— myself, for example. I'm 39 years old, and 30 years ago I lost my parents to that war I had mentioned, but I still remember life before that. I remember when the war was at its worst, as well as the food my mother cooked and the stories and songs she gave me from our country, the manners and societal etiquette worked into me and my encouraged curiosity with the world. Yet now, where I stand, that was such a small portion of my life. Less than a quarter. They're fond memories and things you can pass onto your children and others important to you, if you hold onto them, much the same as cultures pass on their culinary techniques and fashion and language, their stories.
You mention soccer, but did you know that the activity and sport itself is hundreds of years old? I suppose if you wanted to get very technical, it originated in China thousands of years ago. It was passed down through all those years and eventually made it to you, in 2012, changed and refined and made into a worldwide sport. I know it is still around in 2076 as well. Who's to say it will stop with you, unless you don't keep it close to your heart?
You, my dear, have the ability to hold onto and pass on all those things you've enjoyed to those around you. You can use that to shape the world going forward with a wide-open mind. What you choose to present to the future is up to you. You say those things won't happen again, but how certain are you of that? If you really put your mind to it, do you think you wouldn't be able to recreate such things? Given the time and peace to do so.