4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 9

Parable 9: The Version That Stayed

The next morning, the cereal was wrong.

It was a small thing. Barely worth noticing. Father poured two bowls from the same box, but one was multicolored loops, and the other—more muted, like it had faded in the sun.

He checked the label. Checked the bag. Poured again.

All normal.

But the taste lingered bitter.

That afternoon, while folding laundry, he found a shirt that didn’t belong to anyone.

It was his size, his style. But he didn’t own it. Not in this version.

He asked Mother.

She shrugged. “You wear it all the time.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t. I’ve never worn this.”

She looked at him then—not angry, not confused. Just... quiet. Measuring.

And she said, “You really don’t remember, do you?”

Later, the twins recited a bedtime story they swore he had told them the night before. About a bird that could only fly backward. About a tree that grew in reverse, roots up. About a father who had two shadows.

He had never told them that story.

He didn’t think he had.

When he asked where they heard it, one twin said, “You were in the blue shirt. Not the one you have now.”

The other twin nodded. “Your voice was scratchy.”

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

The shadows on the wall didn’t match his movements.

By morning, the baby said a word she had never said before.

“Again.”

She said it over and over, looking him directly in the eye.

“Again. Again. Again.”

Then laughed.

He opened his phone. Scrolled through photos.

Found one he didn’t remember taking: the kids in Halloween costumes he didn’t recall buying. The baby was dressed as a clock. The timestamp read October 31, 2023.

Today was July.

He showed Mother.

She looked. Smiled gently. “That was last fall. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember dressing them as robots.”

“No,” she said. “That was the year before.”

“I’m telling you, I—”

But she had already turned away.

That evening, he walked into the bathroom and caught his reflection turning too late.

Not a glitch. Not subtle.

His reflection blinked after him. Slight delay.

He stared at the mirror, willing it to normalize.

Instead, a message appeared on the fogged glass:

“YOU ARE NOT THE ORIGINAL.”

He scrubbed it away with his palm. The steam returned. The message stayed gone.

But something in him refused to.

He went outside, into the night air.

He walked the neighborhood. Past the fence that used to be broken—but now wasn’t. Past the house that had always had green shutters—but now they were blue.

A woman stood by a mailbox, petting a dog he didn’t recognize.

She looked up. Smiled.

“Didn’t expect to see you out again,” she said.

“Again?”

She nodded. “You usually keep to yourself, but after the fire—well, I guess we all reevaluate.”

His throat tightened. “What fire?”

The woman blinked. “Your kitchen. Last December. You and the kids got out, but... I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

He didn’t answer. He turned and walked home.

There was no fire damage. No record. No photos.

But that night, as he lay in bed, he smelled smoke.

And beneath it—lemon cleaner. Like something trying to cover what couldn’t be erased.

At 3:33 a.m., his phone buzzed with a silent notification:

“YOU HAVE BEEN RESTORED TO A FAVORITED STATE.”

He didn’t open it.

He turned the phone face down.

And in the dark, he whispered:

“Then where did the other one go?”