That night, the house had gone still. The soft hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the hallway clock were the only sounds that filled the dark kitchen.
Lily sat at the table, a bowl of cereal in front of her, untouched. Her mom leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her.
"He's upstairs?" she asked quietly.
Lily nodded. "Yeah. Passed out the second he hit the bed."
Her mom sighed and walked over to sit across from her. "Lily… I know you've got a big heart, but you don't really believe all that time-travel nonsense, do you?"
Lily hesitated. "I do."
Her mom tilted her head. "Sweetheart, look… I know he seems different. But sometimes people lie. Or they make stuff up because they're scared, or… they don't want to go back to whatever they were running from. He could be homeless. Maybe even mentally unstable."
"Then why would he talk the way he does? The clothes, the manners, the way he looked at the microwave like it was going to bite him?"
Her mother rubbed her temples. "Maybe because he was hit by a car and has a concussion."
"That was two days ago, Mom. He hasn't changed his story once. He thinks toilets are magic!"
Her mother leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, as if trying to find some sanity in the swirl of possibilities.
"Maybe he's just… found a comfort zone here. And doesn't want to leave it."
Lily's voice softened. "What if he's telling the truth? What if… somehow, he really is from 1810? That portal stuff—he's not the kind of person who would've seen that in movies or made it up."
"Even if he believes it, Lily, it doesn't make it real."
Lily looked down, swirling the cereal with her spoon. "You should've seen his face when the bathroom flushed."
Her mom chuckled quietly, despite herself. "Okay, that was kind of funny."
"He was just a boy, Mom. He still is. And whatever his story is… he's lost. He's alone. He's trying to understand a world he never knew existed. Can't we give him that space?"
There was a long pause. Her mother looked thoughtful, conflicted, maternal instinct wrestling with logic.
Finally, she said, "He can stay for now. But I'm going to keep an eye on him. And I want him checked by a doctor. No arguments."
Lily nodded. "Deal."
Just then, soft footsteps creaked on the stairs. Kemet appeared at the doorway, looking drowsy but slightly panicked.
"Uh… Miss Lily?"
"Yes, Kemet?"
"I think the… the little cleaner is stuck under the table. I didn't know what to do."
Her mother blinked.
Lily smiled, already getting up. "I'll get it."
As she walked past her mom, she whispered, "He's trying, Mom. Just give him a chance."
Her mother watched Kemet—confused, barefoot, concerned about the robot vacuum—and something softened in her eyes.
"Okay," she murmured. "One chance."
The next morning, Catherine decided not to go to work. She waved it off with a casual, "Not much going on at the office today." But when Lily asked her again, she added, almost too quickly, "I just want to understand more… about this time travel thing."
But that wasn't the truth.
Deep in the quieter corners of her mind, Catherine regretted everything—the accident, bringing Kemet home, allowing him to stay. If he truly was from the past, from a time of chains and fields and silence, a part of her wished he'd disappear just as mysteriously as he had come. Like smoke through fingers.
She spent the day pretending to be busy—dusting counters that were already clean, sipping coffee she didn't finish. But her eyes never left him. She watched Kemet like the lions of the Serengeti stalk a lone kob—silent, calculating, waiting.
Kemet, for his part, remained innocent of the tension building around him. The TV had become his escape, his portal within the portal. A window of dreams, stories, and voices that weren't shouting orders. Sitting there, wide-eyed and curious, he let himself taste something he had never known: freedom.
And it tasted sweet.
But sweet things, he feared, never lasted.
A thought flickered in his mind like static: How do I keep this? How do I start a new beginning?
Because even in this bright world of images and marvels, he knew one thing for certain: nothing is truly free. And nothing, nothing, lasts forever.
It was early afternoon when Catherine finally made her move. Kemet was still on the couch, eyes fixed on the television. The remote rested loosely in his hand, his posture relaxed, almost boyish. The flickering images reflected in his eyes like firelight on still water.
Catherine stepped into the room, arms crossed but her expression soft. She stood there for a moment, watching him as he watched the world.
"Kemet," she said gently.
He blinked, turned, and sat up straight like a child caught sneaking candy. "Yes, ma'am?"
She gave a tight smile, then walked over and sat in the armchair across from him, her eyes narrowing just slightly.
"I wanted to talk," she began, her voice smooth, too smooth. "About... everything."
He nodded slowly.
"You said you're from the past. From 1800s. That you were a slave." She tilted her head. "That's a very... big thing to claim."
Kemet's eyes dropped, his hands folded between his knees.
"I'm not saying I don't believe you," she added quickly. "But I work with facts. And the facts are... you were hit by my car, hard. You might be suffering a concussion, maybe even a trauma-related memory lapse. You could be confused, Kemet."
She leaned forward now, voice softening to something that almost resembled concern. "Or... you might be running from something. Something back where you came from. And maybe this whole story is a way to start over. To cover your tracks."
Kemet looked up at her slowly. His voice was quiet, but steady. "Yes I was running from my enslavers . And I came here... I don't even know how I came here."
Catherine sighed, rubbing her temples. "Listen, Kemet. Whatever you're hiding—whatever happened—you don't have to lie to me. You can trust me. I'm not your enemy. But I need the truth. The real truth."
He looked at her for a long moment, then said softly, "That's the truth ma'am I even don't believe it but it is the truth."
Catherine sat back, her fingers tightening slightly on the armrest. She wanted to believe him, a part of her did. But another part—the colder, sharper part—was already drawing lines between what was safe and what was dangerous.
And Kemet, no matter how polite or quiet or sweet, was still a mystery.
And mysteries didn't belong in her house.