A caring mother. A strong father. Three children. One night that changes everything.
How does a family keep breathing after the unthinkable?
This is Part 1 of the novel Death on Fridays — a story about a loving family whose world changes in one violent moment, and their long journey through grief, fear, and the fragile search for hope.
The old man sat in his armchair, its leather softened by decades of use, positioned perfectly beside the tall window that overlooked the garden. At ninety-something, his body had slowed, but his mind remained sharp, disciplined, and alert. A folded newspaper rested in his hands, its edges neat, never creased without reason.
He did not skim. He studied.
His eyes moved steadily across columns of national and international affairs: heads of state, shifting alliances, treaties signed and broken, quiet tensions disguised as diplomacy. He lingered longer on stories others might dismiss as routine: joint military exercises, trade corridors, foreign visits labelled “symbolic.” Symbols, he knew, often hid intentions.
The house was otherwise calm. Then calm shattered.
A sudden rush of footsteps thundered through the hallway. Laughter burst into the room, sharp and unchecked. Five, no six, children came sprinting in, their voices overlapping, their energy boundless. They argued mid-run, one accusing another of cheating, someone shouting a name too loudly.
A shove. One child stumbled and crashed into the old man’s chair. The chair lurched.
In an instant, the newspaper slipped from his hands. The old man’s head snapped up.
His eyes swept the room, fast and precise, assessing before emotion could form. No child was injured. No one was crying. Only startled.
He rose slowly, deliberately, to his full height.
When he spoke, the sound was not loud, but it carried. “That’s enough.”
The voice was aged, yes, but beneath the years lay something hardened, trained. A voice that had once cut through gunfire and chaos. A voice that expected obedience.
The children froze. Silence fell so suddenly it felt rehearsed.
Before fear could bloom, before lips could tremble, the old man’s expression softened. Severity melted into warmth, and a gentle smile replaced the steel in his eyes.
“Well,” he said, lowering himself back into the chair, “what do you say to a nice story?”
The shift was instant.
“A story?” “Yes!” “We want a story, Grandpa!”
They rushed toward him, excitement returning in waves. One sat cross-legged on the rug, another leaned against the chair’s arm, two more squeezed in close, their faces glowing with anticipation.
The old man settled in, adjusted the cushion behind his back, and reached for a glass of water on the side table. He took a slow sip, then carefully placed the lid back on before setting it down.
“Uh… uh… ugh,” he cleared his throat. “All right,” he said. “Listen closely.”
The children leaned in.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was an undercover agent.”
“Ooooh…” someone whispered.
“This agent handled weapons, commanded teams, planned attacks and defences. He understood wars before they began and sometimes ended them before the world even realized they had started. He had no medals. No name anyone would remember. He made impossible choices and carried their weight alone. He survived when he was not meant to. He learned when others broke. And slowly, carefully, he began to move the pieces. It was said he could erase entire nations with a single decision.”
A small hand shot up. “What was his name?”
The old man paused, a faint smile touching the corner of his lips. “James Arthur.”
“Like James Bond?” a boy asked. “I’ve never heard that name,” another added.
“That’s because,” the old man said calmly, “he was undercover.”
The children nodded solemnly, accepting this as perfectly logical.
“Okay,” he murmured, then paused again. His gaze drifted briefly, not to the children, but somewhere far beyond the room. “No. That’s not where the story should begin.”
He shook his head gently. “Let me start again.”
The children groaned in protest but stayed silent.
“Once upon a time,” he said, “there lived a family in the city of Gennerva, in the State of Phoenixia.”
“But you said…” “No interruptions,” he said mildly. “Or the story ends here.”
“Sorry!” “Jenny, don’t talk!” another child whispered urgently.
The room settled.
It was nine o’clock at night. Supper was done. In the next room, parents spoke in low voices, laughter drifting faintly through the walls. The house was wrapped in that quiet warmth: the gentle hush, the perfect stillness that invites secrets and stories alike.
The old man nodded, satisfied.
In the quiet that followed, no one noticed the faint scars on his hands, or the way his eyes held memories far older than any bedtime tale.
The story continues in Part 2 — Gennerva’s Annual Festival.
