Hidden Sun
by Morgan Smith
The day started off so calmly Rana was almost disturbed by it. Her mother had left for work early so she wasn’t awakened by whatever gossip she usually heard over the phone. Her grandfather’s radio wasn’t blasting from the kitchen. Everything was peaceful. When Rana looks back on it now that should’ve been her first sign that something was off. But at the time she hadn’t thought much of it. As she headed down the stairs, she tried to keep her steps light to prevent the wood from creaking under her.
“What are you sneaking around for?” Rana stilled at the sound of Grandfather's voice. His tone was light, like he was holding back a laugh.
“Oh, morning, Pop. I just thought you were asleep since it’s so quiet down here. Didn’t want to wake you up.”
Rana heard him give a short hum in response as she entered the kitchen but he didn’t say anything. She grabbed a seat across from him at the table, expecting him to explain the silence in the kitchen. But he didn’t. He leaned against the back of his chair leisurely, his gaze fixed to the kitchen window. Rana turned to see what he was looking at but found nothing there.
It was nice out for once. She didn’t get that liberty much where they live. Most days the heat beat down on the house till they couldn’t take it. Rana figured the sun could suck up every sign of life around here for miles. She didn’t like to flatter the place by calling it a desert. Everything was just dry and cracked like it couldn’t be bothered to try anymore. But the sun wasn’t beaming out though the window like usual. The light seemed to just drape gently over the kitchen. It covered the wreathed wooden table and stretched past each square of chipped tile and stopped right at her grandfather’s feet. As if it were waiting for permission.
“Nothing worth listening to today?” she asked. Her grandfather shook his head, his tired eyes never wavering from the windowsill. “I can’t hear her over the radio so I turned it off.”
Rana paused to look at him for a moment, doing her best to keep her face vacant. “Hear who Pop?” For some reason her words caused him to laugh, but it was hollowed, an empty chuckle that barely passed his lips.
“She’s sitting right there in front of me Rana. Aren’t you a little young to be losing your sight, sweetheart?”
Rana’s mother told her stuff like this was normal. “Your grandfather is in his early 90s,” she’d say. “It’s only natural that his memory is starting to slip.” But it was always little things like a street name or a birthday. He never started conversation with thin air before. Her grandfather’s voice stopped her train of thought. “You shouldn’t worry about it too much.”
Suddenly Rana felt pinned to the kitchen floor, her throat tight as she tried to form a response. “Worry about what Pop?”
Her grandfather finally tore his eyes from the window to smile at Rana. “You’ll start to see her soon enough.”.
Rana sat there. Feet planted to the ground, desperate for him to drop the punchline. But there was no joke; his smile didn’t even waver. Like his words were supposed to bring her comfort. What was she supposed to say in response to that? Rana’d never been good with words. When it came to serious stuff her tongue would end up dissolving to the pit of her stomach.
Mama used to say it was one of her quirks she got from her father. Rana couldn’t have been older than ten when he died but she still remembers how loud the funeral was. People shouting their grief at her father’s casket like they could shake death off him. Everybody had something they needed to say and Rana just felt trapped.
And then Pop came. He just waltzed into the church as if the death of his son wasn’t something that could weigh him down. That was the first time she met her grandfather. But he had never really felt like a stranger. There was something about him that seemed so sheltering to Rana. The two of them just sat there without saying a word. He had held her hand just through it all.
Seven years had passed since then and maybe Rana should’ve learned some tact by now. Gotten better at voicing when something bothered her instead of jumping right in to try and fix it. But she hadn’t. So here she was seven thirty in the morning questioning her grandfather’s sanity. Rana figured at this point if there had been a time to talk about it it’s obvious, she’s missed it.
“Well until then I’m going to start making breakfast, alright?” Rana’s chair made a harsh screech as she pushed it against the cracked tile.
“You don't think I’m lying?” Her grandfather’s voice seemed so small. Rana knew he was waiting for her to say yes. But she couldn't, she didn’t know how to blow off something he seemed so sure was real like her mother could. It didn’t sit right with her.
“Of course, I don’t.” Rana was sure of that if nothing else. “I’m never gonna think something like that Pop.”
Then the windows slammed shut. The rusted hinges seemed to hiss in pain from the force that closed them. And that familiar heat found its way back into the kitchen in an instant. Rana turned to her grandfather in shock, only to be greeted by a presence sitting on top of their table. It was a woman with bright red eyes, tanned skin, and hair that flowed in wild coils off her head. She looked like Rana; the familiarity left her dumbfounded and curious. There were cracks all over her body--some hairline thin, others big enough that Rana wondered if she could push a finger inside. Bright red and orange burned in those cracks, pulsing and creaking as though her insides were on fire. An inhuman heat rolled off of her. She made air in the kitchen become muggy to the point that it was almost suffocating, but Rana couldn’t force her body to move. So they stared at each other, silent and still, for what felt like an eternity before the woman vanished.