The Tenth Explosion

Chapter 3: I didn't lose everything.

You know that kind of morning where nothing feels new, even though it technically is? That was how Mr. James started his day.

He was driving, but not really seeing the road.

You’ve probably had that before—your hands doing what they’ve always done, turning the wheel, easing the brakes, but your mind is somewhere else entirely. In his case, it was stuck on her. Not in a dramatic, loud way. Just quiet. Heavy.

His late fiancée had that kind of presence. The kind that doesn’t leave the room even after… well, you know.

So he’s on the highway heading into the city. Traffic wasn’t bad, just the usual slow crawl near the commercial district. He almost drove past the mall, actually. You know when you’re so distracted you miss your turn? That.

But then he remembered—her parents. And his dad.

He sighed, made a late turn into the parking lot, tires crunching lightly over loose gravel. The mall itself was alive in that chaotic way malls always are—people talking over each other, music leaking from different stores, that faint smell of fried food mixing with cheap perfume.

He stood there for a second after stepping out of the car, like he needed to adjust to the noise. “Alright,” he muttered to himself, almost like he was bracing. “Let’s just get this done.”

Inside, he didn’t overthink the gifts. That wasn’t his style. He picked something simple but thoughtful—wrapped fabric for her mother, something traditional, the kind she used to like. For her father, a solid wristwatch. Not flashy. Respectable. Something you’d wear every day.

For his own dad, he went with a bottle of imported whiskey. The kind they used to argue about—his father claiming local drinks were better, but still quietly appreciating the foreign ones when they showed up.

It should’ve been straightforward. But then he heard them.

Two young women, standing just outside a clothing store, talking louder than they probably realized. At first, he wasn’t paying attention. Just background noise, you know? Then one of them laughed. And it hit him.

He turned. It wasn’t that they looked exactly like her. That would’ve been too easy. Too clean. No, it was worse than that—it was partial. Familiar angles. The way one tilted her head while listening. The way the other spoke with her hands. It was enough to pull him in.

“…I’m telling you, that explosion ruined everything,” one of them was saying. “We lost clients overnight.”

The other shook her head. “It’s not just business. People died. And they’re still acting like it’s nothing.”

Now he was fully listening. You could see it in his posture—still, but focused. Like someone trying not to be obvious.

“The protest is happening today,” the first one continued. “By 4 PM. We’re going.”

“You think it’ll change anything?”

“It has to. That lab shouldn’t even be there anymore. Turn it into a hospital, a museum, I don’t care. Just… something useful.”

There was something in her voice. Not just anger. Urgency. The kind that makes people do things they normally wouldn’t.

Mr. James felt it. Not because he agreed yet—but because he understood where it was coming from. Loss has a way of sharpening things.

He stayed there longer than he should’ve. Long enough that one of the girls glanced in his direction briefly. Not suspicious, just aware. That snapped him out of it.

He looked away, adjusted the shopping bag in his hand, and walked off like he hadn’t just been standing there absorbing every word. But it stuck with him. The protest. The lab. The explosion. All of it.

Later that day, he pulled up in front of her parents’ house.

You ever notice how grief changes a place? It’s not visible in the way furniture moves or walls crack. It’s quieter than that. It’s in the way the door opens slower. The way voices drop without anyone saying so. That’s what hit him the moment the door opened.

Her mother saw him first. There was a pause—just a second—but it said everything. Then she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Not polite. Not distant. Tight. Like she was holding onto something that hadn’t completely slipped away yet.

“James…” she said softly.

He didn’t respond immediately. Just held her back. Her father came in right after, placing a hand on his shoulder. Firm. Grounded.

“You made it,” he said.

“Of course I did,” James replied quietly.

They sat together in the living room, and for a while, it was just memories. Not the dramatic kind. No crying out loud or anything like that. Just… talking.

“She used to sit right there,” her mother said at one point, pointing to a corner of the couch.

James nodded. “Yeah. And she’d complain if anyone else took that spot.”

That got a small laugh. You know the kind—half real, half breaking.

They offered him food, like they always did. He hesitated at first, but then accepted. Not because he was hungry, but because refusing would’ve felt wrong. Like rejecting the moment.

Before they could insist too much, he brought out the gifts. “I got you something,” he said.

It shifted the mood slightly. Her mother took the fabric carefully, running her fingers over it like she could feel the intention behind it. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

Her father inspected the watch, nodding with quiet approval. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“I know,” James replied. “I wanted to.”

And that was enough. They thanked him—not just for the gifts, but for being there. For not disappearing like a lot of people do when things get heavy.

After a while, he stood up. “I should go see my dad,” he said. They didn’t try to stop him. Just more quiet gratitude.

His father’s place felt different. Less fragile. Still heavy, but in a more… contained way. They didn’t hug. That wasn’t their thing. Instead, his father handed him a bottle the moment he walked in. “Pour,” he said. Classic.

They sat outside, the evening settling in slowly around them. The first few minutes were just silence and the sound of liquid hitting glass.

Then his father spoke. “You remember your uncle?” he asked.

James nodded. “First one we lost.”

“Yeah,” his father said, taking a slow sip. “Didn’t think it would keep going after that.”

James leaned back in his chair. “It never really stops, does it?”

His father shook his head. “No. You just get used to it.”

They talked like that for a while. About death. About how it doesn’t hit the same way every time, but it always hits.

Eventually, James brought it up. “The protest,” he said.

His father looked at him. “What about it?”

“I heard about it today. People want to shut down the lab.”

His father let out a quiet breath. “It’s more than that. Some of them want to burn it down.”

James didn’t flinch. “I don’t blame them.”

That got a reaction. His father turned fully toward him. “You don't see anything wrong with that?”

James shrugged slightly. “That place has taken hundreds of lives.”

“And burning it fixes that?”

“No,” James admitted. “But it sends a message.”

His father shook his head slowly. “That’s how things get worse.”

There was a pause. Not tense. Just… real.

“You thinking of going?” his father asked.

James didn’t answer immediately. Then: “Maybe.”

His father leaned forward slightly. “Don’t.” That was firm.

“Why?”

“Because anger like that doesn’t stay controlled. You think it’s about justice, but it turns into something else fast.”

James looked down at his glass. “You think doing nothing is better?” he asked.

“I think staying alive is better,” his father replied.

That landed. Harder than anything else he’d said.

They didn’t argue after that. Just sat there, drinking, each one turning the same thoughts over in their own way. Because the truth is, both of them were right. And that’s what made it complicated.