Since childhood, Scott had always felt that something was off about the world he lived in.
The first time he had this feeling was on the day his grandmother passed away.
It was a calm and sunny afternoon. Five-year-old Scott was in the backyard pulling weeds. His grandfather and father were working at the Blacksmith Shop, his mother was filling the water tank, and his grandmother was mending their clothes.
Scott remembered that moment as though it were a photograph etched into his mind—golden sunlight, his grandmother seated in the backyard rocking chair, the dusty backyard, smoke from the neighbors' chimney rising slowly into the azure sky, the sound of cicadas in his ears, the scent of azaleas in the air, and his grandmother smiling gently at him.
