I always loved children, always wanted to be a father. To raise some small version of myself, teach it the lessons I never learned, all part of the dream. But it was truly for their faces. A child sees the world as it should be, not as it is. They have wonder and joy in those eyes that we all lose in time. It is perhaps unusual for a man to feel this way, but I cannot help it.
When I moved to Ichor Falls, it was sadly not for the children. A local newspaper, the Sentinel, needed someone to type up obituaries, and lacking a better option, I took it. Life as a journalism undergrad is filled with these choices. I have flitted from obit job to obit job. It is not a career that draws companion. I had been working here for three months when I finally was able to move into my house. The realtor, a handsome man with a close-cropped goatee who introduced himself as August Parrish, had shown me the house earlier. It was in that district called Lower Alethia. I had needed the months to gather enough money for the down payment. He had explained its history, built before the Ethylor Summer, had even been home to an Amish school for a time. It was a nice Victorian home, and with time, I could certainly make a profit, once Ichor Falls’ housing market started filling up a bit more. The perfect time to buy.
He asked the strangest question at the time.
“Do you like children?”
“The neighborhood is supposed to have several families moving in soon, I was checking to see if that was a problem.” He flashed me a smile.