One thing I've never believed in was divine powers. God didn't create the world in a week and the Day of the Mist certainly wasn't a way to punish sinners. My grandfather once told me that we had just one life in this world, and that was it. No afterlife or happily ever after when we pass. And because we had just this one chance at living, we had to make each and every second of it count. What we leave behind after we're dead is our legacy, and it's our responsibility to make that shine as brightly as possible. I think that idea's much more beautiful than anything a deity could represent.

I left G outside as the large, oak double door of the church closed behind me, the dimness of the building settling into view. There was only one pathway from the entrance pass the marble stoup. I crossed the container of holy water without interacting with it in any way and into the main hall of the small church.

Long wooden benches lined the aisle that lead to the bema, the extended platform from which clergymen would preach from. The body of Jesus Christ was portrayed into the stained glass window behind the podium. The only source of light came through the body of the son of God. Christianity was one of the few things that made it through the Day of the Mist. In the face of almost certain destruction, I guess some people needed hope and spiritual support more than food or shelter.

Sitting nearer to the aisle on the front bench to the left were the silhouettes of two people. A tall, pony-tailed woman in a glowing white lab coat, and shorter figure with clipped and wavy auburn hair. There were no guesses needed to know who they were.

“Joan,” I called out to my wife in a nervous, almost inaudible whisper. “Leila.”

My heart skipped a beat when the pony-tailed woman twitched in surprise at my voice. A wave of insecurity drowned me in a flash flood. What if she doesn't recognise me? Does she even remember my name? All my worries were moot however, when in less than five seconds, she had crossed the length of the church and ran into my chest in a tight embrace, face buried in my chest.

She lifted herself off and stared face-to-face with me. Her hair, once dark like the night sky, were now lighter, akin to charcoal. Thin creases, barely visible, ran through her forehead. Aside for the length of her hair, Joan looked almost the same as she did seven years ago. Her lab coat was ragged with patches of dirt, as I had assumed it would, and she still wore her patented style of shorts and dirt stained white shirt underneath.

As her hazel eyes scanned my face as frantically as I scanned hers, our stares met and she broke out with a smile. Though not openly weeping, balls of tears rolled down her cheeks. “Hey you,” she croaked.

My heart melted at the familiar voice, soothing me both emotionally and physically, and I let out a breath I didn't even knew I held. “Hey yourself.”

On the way over, I had dozens of questions deluging in my head to ask when I met her. How are you? Is Lelia doing good in school? So you're a hero now? But with my wife in front of me, all those questions disappeared, and it felt as if we've not parted for more than a day. For me at least, that was the truth. I had after all, just woken from what was basically a nap.

I asked, “Where's Leila?”

The smile slipped from Joan's face. Just slightly, barely noticeable. But I could tell. I had always been able to know. It's one of those things about loving someone deeply. Something was wrong and she was putting up a strong front.

She turned to the other figure that remained on the bench and called out, “Leila, come say hi to your dad.”

If I was any older, I would probably have had a heart attack the moment the girl stood up. Dragging her feet across the aisle, my daughter was the epitome of proof that I was, indeed, seven years into the future from my previous day.

Leila was at the height of my chin, almost twice what she was when I last saw her. Her auburn hair had a slick glow to it, kept short and combed into a neat wave, an ocean of red. She wore a black leather hoodie, a white shirt underneath it, and jeans so blue it really should just be called black by then. She wore glasses too. A pair of sharp-edged, grey browline spectacles that fit gently on her nose. Since the day she was adopted, it was known that she was slightly myopic and would need glasses one day. I was just glad that they had enhanced the sharpness of her hazel eyes instead of negating them.

Almost warily, she looked up to me, and with a tone so apathetic that I felt my heart clenched in sudden, overwhelming sadness, she greeted, “Hey.”

Holding back the croak that attempted to make its way up my throat, I replied, “Hi.” That was not a greeting between a parent and child. That was how you'd greet a stranger. “How are you?”

“Good,” was her one worded reply as she directed her gaze to her white sneakers.

I squatted slightly so I could be exactly at her height and tried, “How's school?”

She looked back to me with a quick snapping stare of annoyance before looking away, “Okay I guess.”

Without noticing, I had raised my shaking hands and cupped them around her shoulders. She jolted with shock when I did so and pushed my arms aside, stepping back as a look of rage flashed across her face.

Joan cried out in shock, “Leila!”

And in returned, my daughter, the same one who I had raised for the first four years since her adoption, snapped at me. “DON'T TOUCH ME!” she shouted, her voice echoing throughout the empty church, tears streaming down her hazel eyes.

In that split second of distraction, whatever subconscious part of my mind that controlled my mechanical legs gave way and I fell to my knees, arms still held out in shock. I could hear Joan sobbing silently behind me. I wanted to cry, to ball my eyes out, but my implants would not let me.

“You were gone!” Leila screamed, sweeping her arms in an attempt to wipe me from her vision. “Just like that! You climbed into that stupid machine and you were gone for seven damn years just like that!”

“Lei...” I attempted to wheeze out her name.

Another burst of anger crossed her face. “Don't 'Leila' me! Do you know what it's like? People asking me, 'Where's your dad?' and I have to tell them you're dead!” Her tone softened as she was overwhelmed by her crying. Between the incoming sobs, she continued, “You ju-just decided to go and you think y-you c-can just come back and every-everything will be okay? Just come back a-and treat me like I'm seven and everything will be fine?”

“I didn't think...didn't know you were...” The words caught the tip of my tongue with a pick and wouldn't let go.

She wiped away a round of her tears only for another gush to cover her cheeks again. “Didn't t-think what?” She took a deep breath to calm her sobs. “T-that I would miss you? My friends talk about how their dad's don't understand them. How they're old and don't know what it's like to be a kid. I'm fourteen now dad. You've been gone for half my life. That's half of me you've never met!”

I stared at my daughter, unable to reply. Finally, she shook her head, disappointed at my lack of a comeback and headed for the door, walking pass me in the process.

“I can't wait for you to come back,” she murmured just as she passed.

Joan called out, “Leila!” as she watched her walk away. Putting a gentle hand on my shoulder, she told me, “I'll be right back.” And went after our daughter.

I looked up at the stained glass image of Jesus, the man who was said to return at the end of days to judge mankind. In the between, he inspired hope and dedication in his followers, something which I was unable to do even with my own daughter. But I'm not God or some divine being. I've never claimed to be. Just human, that's all I ever was and will be, and something such as indisputable devotion is something I can never expect from people. Like all other humans, I make mistakes, and climbing into the Cryo-Tube might have been the biggest of my life.

I wished there was some important life lesson that I learnt then, knelt on the floor alone, unable to cry or feel physical pain to numb me. The only thing I got out of the experience was that at the end of my one hundred and thirty-nine years, I would likely have to face the end of the world as I did the aftermath of that outburst.

Alone.