He was an only child. Like all only children, a bit spoiled. But still well mannered. Or so he thought. After all, he was a good student. He had only As and Bs. Except for just one subject.

Ironically, history.

Why is it ironic you will ask. Well, because he was the son of a historian.

"Why do I need this?" he has been always asking his Father.

The Father has been sighing and trying to explain this, but the Son could not understand after all.

He won't like history. No, period.

Boring, stupid, useless.

He already preferred to solve equations on math or read another lecture on literature lessons.

He knew that his Dad is disappointed because of it. That his own Son did not share his passion. Because he had to admit one thing to Dad - history was his Dad's life passion. He could talk about it for hours. First he worked at school, then at the university. His students loved him for his ability to put himself in their shoes and act like a human being rather than a deity.

Dad traveled a lot, mostly to the United States. He loved this country, he fell in love with its culture and economy. He was very knowledgeable about every topic related to this country.

But the Son still hated history. He didn't need it to live. At most for computer games. But besides that, his life was happy without it.

One day, however, this bubble burst. The doctor told them about diagnosis, a crushing diagnosis.

Mum was crying. For a long time. In a pillow. She thought no one saw her tears, but her Son saw them. He even heard them.

Dad didn't cry. He was sitting in the kitchen reading a book about the USA and drinking lemon tea. As if nothing happened.

The Son was angry with his Dad. He sat down across from him, a bit offended.

"Why don't you hug her at least?" he asked firmly, trying to force his voice to not tremble.

He tried to be a strong man, after all, he was eleven years old.

"She asked me to give her a moment to settle down" replied the Father, taking a sip of his tea.

He looked at his Son and ruffled his hair.

It was too much for eleven years old boy. After a moment his cheeks were wet.

"I don't want you to die" he whispered, clutching his fingers into his Dad's plaid shirt. "I don't want it!"

Dad didn't say anything. He just stroked his head.

He was silent.

Actually, he was silent for several years. He was silent about his illness all this time.

He told some students. Others didn't know. Others knew only a little of the truth.

That he is sickly, that his immunity is weak, that he has had five operations.

The son remembered each of them well. He was always afraid that his Dad wouldn't come back.

But he was coming back. Always.

He came back on Friday too. He ate lunch, told them that the students were trying to avoid passing the exam again. That he would let them cheat anyway until the first person returned the test, so they don't have to panic. That he made an appointment with a student for Monday's duty, because she had one extra absence. And that his colleague from work greeted him five times and that his friend offered fudge to everyone. He got one too. He claimed that the fudge was good, although it stuck his teeth together for a good minute.

Then came Saturday. Dad was strangely moody and a bit broody. But they watched a controversial documentary together and played a game that was supposed to be historical. Apparently, because Dad had a lot of reservations about the correctness of the events presented.

This time it was the Son who was silent. He didn't want to upset Dad by interrupting him, because he honestly didn't care what really happened. Besides, actually, Dad had a special gift for storytelling. You could listen to him for hours. Even as if he were analyzing a telephone directory or some quantum physics question.

During the night, Mum called an ambulance. Dad felt bad. Bad enough to complain about it.

The Son laid down on the bed next to him and looked up at the ceiling, searching for the right song in the playlist.

"What are you doing?" asked the Father.

His voice was weak.

"Music is said to ease the pain" replied Son, taking one earphone from his ear and handing it to Dad. "Take this. Maybe it will help you."

Dad smiled gently and ruffled his hair as always. He put an earphone in his ear.

They were laying like this and waiting for ambulance, listening to the music. Son almost fell asleep, but then a music stopped suddenly, which woke him up.

"What happened?" he was confused.

He looked at phone's screen. It was black.

"Crap, it discharged. I forgot to charge it."

Son looked at his Dad. A slight smile wafted across his face. His eyes were still closed.

But something was wrong. Son felt a strange coldness. But not as a temperature, but an atmosphere.

When paramedics entered his parents' bedroom, they didn't have to tell anything. At least they didn't have to tell him. He had already known that his Dad fell asleep forever.

Maybe even in the moment, when his battery's energy ended.

Mum has been crying again. This time even longer.

A newspaper that Dad got from a friend from USA, left opened on the kitchen table. In the sink there was still the mug that his Son had given him for his birthday. Plaid shirts and his favorite black jacket still wore his scent.

But he wasn't here anymore. He was somewhere else, somewhere beyond, unavailable, unattainable.

He vanished, as if he disappeared in the air.

Meanwhile one question appeared in the Son's mind for the first time, when he sat at the table and stroked an american newspaper by his fingers.

Maybe... It's time to start liking history?

The end