The aroma of the grilled cheese placed at the center of the roundtable had reached their very olfactory senses, though their distance from the table was never that really far, a nearly less than two yards, and that the smell was soothing to their nose and eyes. They could feel the dedication of his mother of which he had poured into the grilled cheese and she had mastered the very way of cooking that particular sandwich, of which also could be seen on her eyes when Micael had the glance when he recently handed the coasters into his mother, and he, as well, had closed the cabinet door of that whatsit that hugged itself tight unto the wooden wall, and then the rest was done.
One could had told them, if someone was really around and outside the table, he would had told them it looked like a masterpiece of someone virtuosic both in mind and the body, food-wise, at least. "We shall get ourselves full and eating, guys," his mother uttered with a smile about her cheeks while looking into both Micael and his father's eyes with the happiest glare with some thoughts at the back of her head. Are they really interested of my food? Or they have only been in love with my cooking because they're in love with me? which had never reached the think-abouts and thought processes of both the guys of their family, but there was one thing which had reached both of them, let alone all of them: hunger, happiness and the fact that they were all very near to touch the heels of Britain and they were once more, built concrete like rod, family-wise, and they all found their seats around the roundtable, and where their eating for such time had followed their whereabouts and lasted about the very epoch of their time while the new horizons awaited their very ship to drift ashore.
Micael did find a sleep after their eating. His breath still smelled like grilled cheese and his saliva was still feeling the citrus-y of the lemonade his mother had made, and his sleep was nothing different than the last weeks ago.
Do not be deceived like a ghost, Aleck, for it was never meant to be broken.
A voice was heard past his ears, and his eyes went awoke without his body even budging an inch. His body was straight along his bed covered with the littlest portion of the blanket which had enveloped his very feet and ankle, and he went on. He looked where the voice was coming, but the voice had moved from the very side of his ear into a place where the littlest of his senses had seen: behind his door which was coming from their dining room. He then moved the blanket which covered his feet away from his body with his hands, which had his torso lifted from the very mattress of his bed, and he did.
He then tapped his heels onto the wooden floor of his room with such speed for the hiss was getting quite aloud. "It was never meant to be broken," the voice had uttered once more with a much louder hiss from the very last one, which felt like it was closer than his ears but was much farther than his eyes could have ever visually depicted where its whereabouts really was. He then stood up and walked barefoot as he could not see his weary sandals beneath his eyes, but he continued still. He walked slowly down the tiniest space of his room, and looked at the side of it where his table was residing since the very start of their board, and there was something obscure past the voice: a drawing of letters which he knew he had never written since the very first day of his seating, let alone the very first day past his apparent, irrelevant death. Right before his eyes, he could see a myriad of the collection of the symbols of which he was very familiar with: The English and the Greek alphabet of which were used together and merged into words he could hear amidst the loudening of the hiss beyond the door. He focused his lenses towards the trajectory of the letter's lights, looked at it very carefully and read it inside his mind, while his door was starting to emit a quite wind breeze inside his room, which had hit his very skin and he felt the cold piercing his very epidermis and clothing all the way down to his spine.
Wake up, Aleck. It was never meant to be broken. -Prypyat the seventh
He had read it inside his head, which was just the very same audio coming from his door's very behind, which came apparent that this one, like the very time of his awakening, was just another dream of something irrelevant but the only thing that buggered his very mind was the fact that he could move unto his intention and command. He then budged his head and eyes which were focused very on the writings, and then moved on. He could feel the breeze getting colder and colder and the voice louder.
"It was never meant to be broken," said the hiss once more, much louder and distorted from the last, which sent him the very message that what was beyond his door was something very different, and so he checked. He held the knob with his hand, and he immediately felt that it was cold which was out of the ordinary. Its temperature and the absence of heat resembled a door which had been closed to keep the colds from getting inside the very wary halls of a northern home, but he never moved an inch. He twisted the knob with quite the small force it felt like it was biting itself from its very housing, like a very rusty orange-like door knob, and he knew it was not his door, at least on the knob, but he continued because of his wandering curiosity.
Before twisting the door knob fully, he turned head towards his bed, where the window was resting beside his very place, but it was no different. It showed the open seas outside and the new horizons which was getting closer and closer than the very last of which he had checked it, which also added the confusion inside his head, but his bravery had never retreated like a coward made of dirt and mud, and soon a click from the knob followed. A very sound of which you would expect from a rusty, old door knob.
...