4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 8

Parable 8: The House With One Wall Missing

The neighborhood barbecue had never been this crowded.

Cars lined both sides of the street. Someone had set up string lights across the cul-de-sac. A Bluetooth speaker near the folding tables blasted the kind of upbeat pop that only lived in commercials and dentist offices. Children ran in clusters between knees and lawn chairs, trailed by bubbles and half-eaten snow cones.

Father stood under the shade of a crape myrtle, paper plate sagging with coleslaw and ribs. The food looked better than it tasted. His beer was warm.

Mother mingled with ease. She laughed at someone’s joke and tugged the baby’s hand as she talked. The twins had found other kids their age and were already inventing rules for a game no adult could understand.

The noise didn’t bother him.

What did was the fact that he didn’t remember being invited.

No flyer, no text chain. He didn’t even remember discussing it that morning. Yet here they were—name tags on their shirts, Father’s reading “Greg (Data Analyst – Remote)” in someone else’s handwriting.

He didn’t go by Greg.

He hadn’t updated his LinkedIn profile in over a year.

A man he didn’t recognize approached him with a tinfoil tray. “Brought extras—jalapeño corn muffins. You should try one.”

“Thanks,” Father said.

“You holding up okay?” the man asked, too casual.

Father nodded. “Just tired.”

“Mm. Yeah. Orientation week does that. Systems get twitchy.”

Father blinked. “What?”

But the man had already turned, humming to himself, merging into a knot of neighbors near the coolers.

When he looked back at Mother, she was staring at him. Smiling, but not quite.

He walked over.

“Who was that?” she asked, nudging the baby on her hip.

“I don’t know. Said something about orientation week.”

“Is that your school thing?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

She frowned. “Are you feeling okay?”

He opened his mouth, then stopped.

Because just over her shoulder, he could see into their house. The back wall—the one behind the kitchen—was gone.

Not knocked down. Just... missing.

He could see their fridge, the magnets arranged in shapes the twins never made. He could see the laundry pile that had been on the counter that morning. He could see the dining table.

And sitting at the table was a man in a white suit.

The Interpreter.

He blinked.

The wall was back.

The house whole.

That night, after the kids were in bed, he sat on the front porch with Mother. The citronella candle sputtered between them.

“Do you feel like anything’s off lately?” he asked.

She rocked slightly in the chair, sipping her wine. “You mean besides living in a state that turns the thermostat to hell in July?”

“I mean in us. Around us.”

She looked at him.

Then down at her wine.

“You’ve been different,” she said. “Since the birthday. Since before, really. Not bad. Just... watching things that aren’t moving.”

He nodded slowly. “What would you say if I told you I think someone is editing us?”

Mother didn’t laugh.

She just exhaled. “I’d say... it’s not the weirdest thing you’ve ever said. But maybe it’s the saddest.”

He let that sit.

The porch creaked beneath them.

She reached over, touched his knee.

“I don’t need everything to make sense,” she said. “I just need to know you’re still choosing to be here.”

He tried to answer.

But before he could, a scream rose from inside.

The twins.

They rushed inside.

The living room was fine. The lights were on. The twins stood frozen near the hallway, pointing.

Father followed their gaze.

There, on the bathroom mirror, written in foam letters from the tub toys:

“DO NOT TRUST THE SECOND VERSION.”

He looked at the twins. “Did you do that?”

They shook their heads, wide-eyed.

The baby wailed in the background.

Mother picked her up, bounced her gently. “Someone’s overtired,” she said.

Father stared at the message again. The letters trembled slightly, as if rearranging themselves.

But they didn’t.

They stayed exactly as they were.

He turned off the light.

Closed the door.

And for the rest of the night, avoided mirrors.