Vancouver.
A gray winter morning.
Trees along the road swayed slowly in the damp wind.
Noah stepped out the front door,
a deep navy coat over his shoulders,
a black camera bag hanging from one.
His parents followed him out, just as they always did.
Today, his father had a meeting near City Hall,
so the three of them were leaving the house together.
And then—
At the bottom of the steps,
right by the front door,
sat an unfamiliar envelope.
Heavy gray paper. No name.
Sealed neat and tight.
A double layer of clear plastic kept it dry from the rain.
The couple exchanged a glance.
Without a word, his father picked it up.
The weight told its own story—
photographs inside, and something stiffer, like card stock.
His mother smiled gently.
"Noah, you'll be late. You should go on ahead."
He nodded, adjusting the strap of his bag.
"Alright. See you tonight."
He walked off without hesitation,
but his parents' eyes stayed on his back for a long moment.
The damp wind tugged at his coat,
and the camera bag swung heavy on his left shoulder.
Once Noah turned the corner,
his father stepped quickly back inside.
The envelope went on the kitchen table.
The seal came apart with slow care.
Photographs spilled out—
their son in front of the school, a basketball in hand.
The couple shopping for groceries.
Their own backs captured in the driveway.
Every picture marked with a date and time in red.
On the back of the last photo, a single sentence:
Next time, it could be an obituary instead of a news photo.
His mother's hand trembled.
His father was already at the laptop,
drafting an email to an old university friend in London.
Can we stay at your place for a while? I'll explain later.
He hit send, then opened the airline's website.
His fingers moved quickly through the booking page.
Departure—earliest possible date.
In the living room,
the clock's second hand kept a sharp, steady beat.
The sound was louder than usual,
as if counting down the time the house had left.