Things We Keep

Posted on Wed Jun 10th, 2026 @ 2:21am by Lieutenant Thomas Fletcher

1,598 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Preamble
Location: England, Earth

West Sussex, England
Earth

A lot had changed in the universe since Thomas Fletcher had acquired the little old house nestled amongst England's South Downs.

Back then, the Federation had barely known who or what the Dominion was. It had not spent years fighting one of the bloodiest conflicts in living memory, nor had it compromised cherished principles to ensure the Federation side of the Bajoran Wormhole remained secure.

Back then, Lieutenant Junior Grade Thomas Fletcher had acquired a run-down, near-collapsing house that was already pushing six centuries old. He had purchased it with every intention of restoring it into a home for his toddler daughter and the wife to whom he was happily married.

A lot had changed in the universe since then.

The house stood strong now, beautifully restored and maintained in keeping with its long history. Ancient oak beams lined ceilings and doorways, worn smooth by centuries of hands and weather alike. The floors still creaked in places despite Thomas's best efforts, and several doorframes remained determined to remind taller visitors that the fourteenth century had possessed different ideas about ceiling heights.

Beneath that history, however, lay the quiet comforts of the twenty-fourth century. Holoemitters had been concealed discreetly throughout the property, environmental systems hidden behind stone walls, and modern communications equipment carefully integrated into the old chimney breast. The large display mounted in the sitting room appeared to be little more than a framed landscape painting until activated, at which point it became a fully functional communications terminal.

It had taken years.

Years of planning, restoring, rebuilding and, occasionally, arguing with seven centuries of increasingly creative repair work left behind by previous owners. More than once he had found himself wondering whether it might have been easier to build an entirely new house from scratch.

But that had never been the point.

The house had been intended as a home.

A place where Grace could grow up with muddy boots and scraped knees. A place where family holidays could become family traditions. A place to come back to between assignments.

A lot had changed since then.

The Dominion War had come and gone. The Federation had survived. So had Thomas.

His marriage had not.

Not through betrayal, anger, or some dramatic falling-out. Rather, it had ended the way some things simply do; slowly, quietly, and despite the best efforts of two people who genuinely cared for one another. Years of assignments, missed opportunities, and the relentless challenge of maintaining a family across light-years had gradually worn away at something neither of them had realised was fading until it was gone.

Tom had been in the kitchen refilling his coffee cup when the familiar sound of an excited ten-year-old somehow penetrated windows he would have sworn were soundproof.

His large duffel bag, containing the last few possessions he intended to take with him, sat unceremoniously atop the kitchen counter. The coffee was forgotten almost immediately.

A smile spread across his face before he had even reached the front door.

The latch released with a satisfying click and the door had barely opened before a small whirlwind of energy collided with him.
"Dad!"

Grace's delighted squeal echoed across the front garden as her arms wrapped themselves around his waist with surprising force.
"Bloody hell," Tom laughed as he staggered backwards a step. "Good to see you too."

He crouched long enough to return the hug properly before lifting her off the ground and squeezing her tightly.
"Hello, sweetheart."

For a moment the house, the packing, the orders waiting on the kitchen counter and everything else ceased to exist.
Then he set her down and immediately regretted doing so as she launched into an enthusiastic explanation of something involving a horse, a field, and an incident that apparently wasn't her fault.

Tom was still trying to determine what had happened when he caught sight of Eleanor further up the path.
She was making her way toward the house, dragging a travel bag behind her that looked entirely inadequate for two people staying any meaningful length of time.

His eyes narrowed.

The bag narrowed them further.

"That can't possibly be everything."

Eleanor looked up.

"It is."

"It absolutely isn't."

"It absolutely is."

Tom shook his head, already moving toward her.

"Let me get that."

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying my own bag."

"I know."

The response came automatically.

Neither of them missed a beat.

"You're still not carrying it."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Eleanor's mouth as she surrendered the handle.
Tom took possession of the bag with all the satisfaction of a man winning a familiar argument.

Some things, at least, never changed.

In the short time it had taken the two of them to reach the house, their daughter had already disappeared.
The only clue to her whereabouts was the now-ajar door leading out into the garden.

"Should we check on her?" Tom asked, setting the bag he'd been carrying at the foot of the stairs.

"Is there anything out there to be concerned about?" Eleanor replied, glancing toward her ex-husband before making her way into the kitchen.

"No," he said, following her. "Nothing for miles."

"Dad!"

The familiar squeal, accompanied by rapidly approaching footsteps, echoed through the house.

"Look what I found!"

Mum and Dad barely had time to exchange glances before the back door swung open once more.
Grace emerged looking considerably muddier than she had a few moments earlier. Clutched delicately between thumb and forefinger was a thoroughly bewildered garden snail, which appeared to be questioning every decision it had made that morning.

"Isn't it interesting?" she asked excitedly. "Can I keep it?"

Tom laughed quietly.

"A snail?"

"Yeah!"

"No," Eleanor interjected, accepting the mug of coffee Tom had abandoned when Grace arrived and taking a sip.
"Well..." Tom drew the word out slightly, shooting a glance toward Eleanor. "Maybe we can build him a little house in the garden. Won't take long."

"They live in the garden already," Eleanor replied.

Tom could hear the defeat in her voice.

She knew she wasn't going to win this one.

"Okay!" Grace declared triumphantly.

Before either parent could add anything further, she spun on her heel and headed back toward the garden.
"Come on, Dad!"

Tom looked toward Eleanor.

Eleanor lowered the coffee mug and fixed him with a look. "You're cleaning the mud off her boots."

"Worth it."
The look suggested she disagreed.

Tom grinned anyway before heading after his daughter, leaving Eleanor standing in the kitchen wondering, not for the first time, how two otherwise sensible adults had somehow produced a child with absolutely no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.

The afternoon disappeared with surprising efficiency.

One moment Grace had been introducing him to her newly acquired snail and the next the pair of them were kneeling in the garden surrounded by scraps of wood, discarded tools, and an ever-growing collection of gastropods that had apparently failed to evade capture.

With the assistance of his ten-year-old apprentice engineer, Tom eventually succeeded in constructing a rudimentary but entirely functional snail enclosure. It was neither elegant nor particularly necessary, but Grace appeared delighted with it.
That alone made it worthwhile.

The enclosure now occupied a place of honour beside one of the garden walls and contained several large leaves Grace had discovered growing in a far corner of the property. She had insisted they were the snails' favourite food despite possessing absolutely no evidence to support the claim.

Tom had wisely decided not to challenge the expert.

By the time they finished, the sun had begun its slow descent behind the rolling hills beyond the property, painting the Sussex countryside in warm gold and amber light.

Father and daughter returned to the house with muddy boots, dirty hands, and entirely disproportionate levels of satisfaction regarding their achievement.

The smell greeted them before they even reached the kitchen.

Something warm.

Something familiar.

Something that immediately made Tom realise how long it had been since lunch.

Grace made a beeline for the stove.

Eleanor intercepted her with the speed and efficiency of someone who had performed this exact manoeuvre hundreds of times before.

"Not so close."

"I'm helping."

"You are observing. That's not helping."

"It is for me."
Tom laughed quietly and leaned against the doorway.

For a moment he simply watched.

The house was alive.

Grace was arguing over cooking responsibilities.

Eleanor was pretending not to enjoy the argument.

The evening sunlight spilled through the old windows and caught the exposed wooden beams overhead.
For years, this had been the image he'd carried in his head while restoring the place.

Not perfection.

Not some idealised dream.

Simply this.

Life.

"You're staying for dinner."

The statement came from Eleanor without her turning around.

It wasn't phrased as a question.

Tom opened his mouth to decline automatically.

There was still packing to finish. Travel arrangements to confirm. A transport to catch in the morning. New Bajor awaited, followed shortly thereafter by the Venture.

There was always something to do.

Then he looked toward Grace.

She had already stopped what she was doing.

Her eyes were fixed firmly upon him.

Waiting.

Hopeful.

Completely certain of the answer she wanted.

Tom smiled.

"Absolutely."

Grace's triumphant grin could probably have been seen from orbit.

Eleanor merely shook her head and returned her attention to the stove, though not before a small smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.

Outside, the evening settled gently across the hills.

Inside, for one more night at least, the house felt exactly as it had always been intended to.

 

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