It’s the birthday of Koschei’s favorite person in the universe. His hero, the epitome of all his personal and professional aspirations.
Mum.
He awakens obscenely early to prepare the surprise. He’s on winter holidays already, and it provided him the perfect opportunity to slip into the house just after 3 last night, when his flight got in. He really didn’t sleep after that, ensuring that everything in his multi-media display was set.
He enlists dad’s aid; a note in his handwriting is slipped into mum’s hand just after she awakens. All that it reads: mum, time for a trip down memory lane. I’m in my room. xo Pup.
The door is rigged. Once opened, it triggers a video of massive length and scope, playing from a digital projector aimed at Koschei’s farthest, barest bedroom wall.
From months of archival research into databanks that existed before the global crisis, seeking the aid of family members once involved in the CIA, Koschei has collected photographs of himself as a child with his mother and father; he has included photographs not only of them, but of the ever-blossoming rest of Seraphina’s family: a tasteful, bittersweet and brief nod to Wolfgang, for whom Koschei had once feared he was but a poor substitute; Remiel, Rhamiel, their births, and the videos their father took; countless Snapchats and vines Koschei has made of both kid siblings; the birth of his own daughter, Orla; and finally, the birth of Adriel.
“I’ve only done stuff of you an’ me before,” he volunteers, when the reel has run. “Thought I’d expand the discourse as it were.” He’s proudly puffed up. “Happy birthday, mum.”
A moment passes and that confidence wavers. Was it too much? Will she be overwhelmed? Sometimes her melancholies worry him … .
Icarus 