Genesis. Volume 2

October 5, 1986. Detroit. Marcus's house. Evening. They reached Marcus's house an hour after leaving the factory. The street was narrow, squeezed between blank firewalls, and the house stood at its very end—peeling paint, a crooked porch with a cracked step, a basement window boarded up with plywood. But behind the grimy, cracked windows, a light was burning. Dim, yellow, alive. It filtered through the curtains and fell on the scrawny bush by the doorstep in a pale square. Marcus pushed the door open—it gave way with a heavy groan—and let them all inside. The hallway smelled of old things. Dust, mothballs, cabbage soup simmering somewhere in the back of the house, and tobacco—cheap, strong, the kind that scratches your throat. A man's overcoat hung on the wooden rack—gray, dusty, with shiny sleeves, long unworn. Beside it, a woman's jacket, worn through at the elbows almost to holes. From the kitchen came warmth and the smell of boiled vegetables. "Mom, it's them," Marcus said. A woman came out of the kitchen. About forty, but she looked fifty—gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, deep wrinkles along her lips and forehead, cracked hands with dark rims under the nails. She smelled of soap and exhaustion. Her face was worn, but her eyes were clear, watchful—and sharp, so sharp that you wanted to look away. "You're the ones who helped my son." She wasn't asking, didn't even raise her voice; she just stated it as fact. "We were just… there," Arthur began. "Don't lie." She came up to him, tilted her head back, and looked him straight in the face. She smelled of tobacco and onions, and her breath was warm. "I don't know what you did, but I see the difference. He used to not sleep. He'd scream at night so loud the neighbors pounded on the wall. Today he came home—quiet. Not happy, but calm. I looked into his eyes and saw that someone was there." "Mom, that's enough." Marcus stepped toward her, took her by the shoulder. "It's not enough." She shook off his hand—gently but firmly. "You're my son. I have a right to know who saved you." Jenny stepped forward. Still pale, with her bandaged palm, but her voice was steady. "We didn't save him. We just helped him negotiate." "With whom?" "With what lived in the factory." The woman shifted her gaze to Jenny. She looked at her for a long time—ten seconds at least, and in those seconds the room was so quiet you could hear the old wall clock ticking and water dripping somewhere in the basement. Then she made the sign of the cross—fervently, in the old-believer way, with two fingers, from forehead to stomach, from shoulder to shoulder. "God be with you, girl." "Maybe." Jenny didn't look away. Marcus gently put his arm around his mother's shoulders, turned her toward the door. "Mom, go rest. I'll see them out and come back." "Alright, son." She cupped his face in her dry, warm palms and kissed his forehead. Her lips were warm and rough. "Come back." She went deeper into the house. A floorboard creaked in the hallway, the bedroom door clicked shut, and everything went quiet. Marcus led them out onto the porch. The evening air was cold and damp, smelling of wet earth and rotting leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, the sound echoing through the empty street. "Here." Marcus pulled the old watch from his backpack and held it out to Arthur. "Don't you want to take it?" "You said you'd hide it at your place." "I changed my mind." He shook his head and rubbed his shaved scalp with his palm. "My mother shouldn't know it's in the house. If she finds out that thing is here, in our basement, she'll never sleep again. And I want her to finally get some rest." "Are you sure?" Lisa tugged at his sleeve, lightly. "This is your decision." "No." Marcus almost smiled. "But you know better where to put it." He thrust the watch into Arthur's hands. Arthur took it, weighed it in his palm. The glass was warm—not hot, but noticeably warm, like the skin of someone who'd just woken up. Inside, something ticked quietly: tick-tock, tick-tock, steady, monotonous, like a heartbeat. "We'll hide it somewhere safe." "In Brookfield?" Max squinted. "Maybe. Or New York. We'll consult Sasha and Elias." Marcus nodded. He looked at the watch in Arthur's hands, and there was something strange in his gaze—not fear, not relief, but a quiet, weary gratitude, the way you look at an old enemy you've finally made peace with. "You gave me back my mother." He said it dully, staring at the floor, at the chipped porch boards. "I don't know how to thank you." "Live." Emma pulled a cigarette from the pack, twirled it in her fingers, but didn't light it. "That's the best thanks." They fell silent. A gust of wind tore a few withered leaves from the tree by the fence and scattered them on the steps. "Detroit is a city where people lose their faces," Emma said, staring down the dark street. "We gave one back. Maybe the rest will find their own way." Marcus looked up. In his empty, faded eyes, something flickered—a brief flash, like a spark over a fire. "I'll remember you. Even if I forget everything else." "We'll remember you too." Lisa stepped forward and quickly, awkwardly shook his hand. And then he smiled. For the first time in all this time—really, genuinely. The smile was crooked, unpracticed, like someone who hadn't used those muscles in a long time. But it was there. They walked down the porch steps. Marcus stayed standing in the doorway—the same shaved skull, the same army jacket on his shoulders, the same red thread around his neck—but something in him had changed. There was less emptiness now. "Goodbye," Arthur said. "Goodbye," Marcus said. They walked down the street, their footsteps echoing in the silence. It was getting dark; the eastern sky had turned deep blue, while in the west a narrow orange band still smoldered. The first stars appeared—small, prickly. "Do you think he'll be okay?" Max kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot, sending it bouncing across the asphalt. "He will." Jenny adjusted the bandage on her palm. "He has a mother." "And a thread," Lisa added. "And a memory that no one can take away." Arthur gripped the watch in his pocket. It lay there, warm and heavy, ticking—softly, steadily, almost soothingly. "New York tomorrow," he said. "We need sleep." "We won't sleep," Emma finally lit her cigarette, and its glowing tip danced in the darkness. "We'll try." They rounded the corner. Marcus's house disappeared from view—only the edge of the roof still showed above the fence. But the light in the window was still burning. Warm, yellow, alive.