The Light (Morpheus Road) Read Online Free PDF

years before. I was in my bedroom, playing Jenga with Cooper. It was a game for five-year-olds, but we always made it more interesting by balancing a glass of water on top or playing for Cokes. It was way more fun when something was at stake. Except that Cooper would always make me laugh at a critical moment and I'd end up knocking over the tower and owing him. It was one of those great memories not so much because of what it was, but because it was the final moment before things would change. If I had a time machine, I'd pick that moment to go back to . . . and stay there.
    Dad came into the room. His face was gray. I remember that. He usually bounced in with a loud "Hello, girls!" or something equally goofy. Not that time. His eyes were red. I knew instantly that he'd been crying. I don't know how or why, but as soon as I saw him, I knew what I would hear. I didn't
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    yet know the details, hut something had had happened and I was pretty sure of what it was.
    "Maybe you should head home, Cooper," Dad said, his voice cracking.
    Coop moved to get up, but I pushed him down.
    "Stay," I said, and looked to Dad. "What happened?"
    Coop's eyes were so wide, it was almost comical. For once, and maybe for the last time, he was speechless.
    Dad sat down on the floor, facing me. He didn't have to talk because for some reason I knew what he was going to say. All he could offer were details, and I wasn't so sure I wanted them.
    "Mom had a bad accident," he said. Everything after that was white noise.
    Mom had been on assignment in one of those Eastern European countries that changes its name every two weeks. "Somethingistan" or whatever. She was there to do a study of ancient buildings. It happened in a city where she was shooting a centuries-old temple. It was an earthquake. A serious one. The temple was destroyed. Dozens of people were killed.
    It was a wrong-place, wrong-time event . . . that killed my mom and changed our lives.
    When I first got the news, I was angry. I had the whole "Why her?" thing going on. (Though to be honest, it was more of a "Why me?" thing.) I had no choice but to accept it. Or try to. I still get angry sometimes and this was one of those times. It didn't help that I was already pissed off at Cooper. At that moment I was pissed at Mom, too. I wanted to hit something. Or someone. I needed to release the pressure or I was going to scream.
    I should have screamed.
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    I looked to the picture on my bedroom wall. The temple. It was the last photo she ever took. She would soon die inside of it. When I look at it, which I do most every day, I can't help but think that it didn't matter how many centuries it stood--it was moments away from crumbling to dust, along with my mom. What seemed so strong was actually very fragile.
    It's a beautiful photo.
    I hate it.
    I reached for the shelf that had all of Mom's mementos and grabbed the small, golden ball with the odd markings. It was exactly what I needed. I spun, cocked my arm, and whipped the golden orb across the room, nailing the photo of the temple. It was exactly the release I needed . . . and one I instantly regretted. When the golden sphere hit the picture, it shattered, along with the glass over the photo. Tiny bits of glass flew everywhere. It was like a small explosion. At that same moment I felt a sharp rumble as if a heavy truck was rolling by outside, shaking the house. It was so short, I figured my loss of control and release of pent-up energy had thrown off my equilibrium somehow.
    When the ball broke, it splattered deep red liquid all over the photo and wall. The spray reached beyond the black frame, staining the wall with dark, red-brown juice. I couldn't get my mind around what I was seeing. The ball seemed ancient. How could it be filled with liquid? I walked to the photo, transfixed by the sight of red rivers drooling down the wall. Was it colored water? Or juice? I reached up and gingerly touched a glistening rivulet. I rubbed my fingers together,