The room was lit only by the streetlight outside. He silently moved through the dark, avoiding the places where, she knew, there were boxes of books and piles of trash. He went to the shelf of her father's work, which she had yet to pack, and picked up a book, opened it, and started leafing through it, turning each page separately. What is he looking for, she wondered. It was too dark to read. She watched him from the shadows, the darkest part of the dark room, as he went through each book in turn, page by page. Finally, she spoke.
"Whatever you're looking for, it's not there."
He turned, his eyes huge and bright even in the dark. She got up from the chair and moved toward him. "What are you doing? How can you see?"
Close-cut, loosely curly dark hair, large dark eyes. He was slight, maybe nine years old, and he looked oddly familiar. Had she seen him lurking about outside?
"Who are you?"
The boy stood motionless, like a mouse or a chipmunk when it knows you're watching. She moved closer. "Don't be afraid. What were you looking for?" He didn't seem to breathe. "Did you take the other books?" Not a sound. His eyes caught light and threw it back.
Was he mute? Could he hear her?
Without warning, he leaped onto her like a monkey, knocking her over, kicking, clawing and biting, grabbing for her eyes. At first she fought just to get him off her, but it was a hard fight. Such a small a child to fight so fiercely. He pressed down on her windpipe, and suddenly she felt real fear. Summoning a strength she didn't know she had, she brought her arms up between his and pushed them outward at the elbows, breaking his grip on her throat and shoving him off-balance. She pushed him off her, and knocked him flat, face down to the carpet, then rolled over on top of him. She realized that he had stopped struggling. Wary, she pulled up his head by the hair and realized that it flopped loosely. She had broken his neck. She got up, knelt beside him. He wasn't just unconscious. He was dead, and he looked smaller than ever.
Is there something you're supposed to do? She should call the police. She hadn't meant to kill him. Would they believe her? Why wouldn't they? She stood up, staggering. How could she undo it? What should she have done differently?
Afraid to turn on the light, she moved cautiously across the dark room to the kitchen. She filled a glass of water from the tap and gulped it down. She stood there for a minute, two minutes. Then she went back into the living room. She would call the police.
She went over to the dead child. In the dark, the body could barely be distinguished from the stacks of books sorted out on the floor. It still looked oddly familiar, like her father as a child, she thought. That photo of him asleep on the lawn.
There was a piece of yellow paper near the child's head. She picked it up.
"Chekhov wrote, 'Only fools and charlatans know and understand everything.'"
"Agreed," she said. "But is possible to know and understand anything? Is the past always gone? Is it possible to make peace with the dead?"
She knelt down by the body. Did it look like her father? Did it look like herself? There was no answer. There was no body. There were only stacks and stacks of books.
She reached down and picked one up from the pile that had been the child. The Physics of Time Asymmetry. She picked up the pen, opened the book, and wrote on the flyleaf. "For reasons unknown to physics, time runs only in one direction. The mind and the heart, curiously, transcend time."