The tape ended. Static hissed like rain.
It was a dusty VHS tape, unlabeled except for a single word scrawled in faded black marker: Homefront .
Leo rewound the tape. Pressed play. Watched his mother laugh again. Watched himself as a child, untouched by grief. Watched his father’s eyes, finally looking at him instead of through him. Homefront Video
He didn’t cry. Not then. He picked up the phone and called his own daughter, asleep upstairs, to tell her he loved her before the day ended.
The tape felt heavier than plastic and magnetic ribbon should. Leo drove home, made instant coffee, and dug out an old VCR from the basement. The machine whirred to life with a reluctant groan. The tape ended
The screen fizzed with static, then resolved.
The tape cut. New scene: Christmas morning, 1992. A small boy—Leo—wrestled with wrapping paper. Then another cut: Frank’s mother, baking pies, her hands floured to the wrists. Every few minutes, Frank would ask a quiet question: “What was the happiest day of your life?” or “What do you see when you close your eyes at night?” Leo rewound the tape
Leo’s throat tightened. He leaned closer.