Seven Years Book Novels & Stories

The territory had been experienced. Ernest wrote: The seventh year has been the year of the becoming-real. The sixth year was the year of the naming. The seventh year was the year in which the named things became actual: the east wing, the trips, the writing, the summer evenings in the kitchen garden, the clean repair of the June difficulty, the quince blossom setting. The naming was the intention. The seventh year was the intention becoming the fact. He read this back and found it accurate. He thought it was the most accurate description of the seventh year that was available.

I straightened up and dusted the dirt from my knees. From far away, I could just make out the kindergarten bell ringing, calling the children in for class. They were waiting for me to read them a new picture book. The sunlight here was still gentle, and the sea was still calm. All the hatred and pain rose and fell with the tide, slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I turned and walked down the steps of the cemetery, one careful step at a time, without looking back. For the rest of my life, I would live well, for my sake and for my mother's. All the wrongs and all the hurt would drift away on this seaside breeze, little by little.

Detaching from the current world and transferring to the parallel world. I don't know how long it had been, but my eyes snapped open, and I sat up in bed. There was no suffocating smell of blood. Warm sunlight spilled through the white curtains, and the room smelled like jasmine. I touched my chest. There was a heart there, beating strong and steady. This was... the parallel world the System promised? A world without pain or betrayal? The doorbell chimed. My heart skipped a beat. Driven by an intense gut feeling, I sprinted to the door barefoot.

Russell’s show - 7pm Joey book launch meeting - 10am-7pm Sarah overtime - finish at 6pm Rose bank meeting - finish late? Alice - job interviews (see diary) “We’re going to have to meet at Russell’s show.” I said. “Curtain’s up at seven but none of us will finish work before six.” “How did that happen?” Dad asked. “I’ve got a book coming next week, Rose’s firm is trying to get this bank renovation, you’ve got a parents’ evening, Sarah’s working late so everything’s ready for when she goes on maternity leave, and Alice is trying to hire a new editor.”

July came to Blackwood territory. The seventh summer. The long evenings and the hall in the warm light and the work doing what the work did. I want to be honest about something at this point in the story. The narrative has been moving forward for a long time. Many chapters. Many steps. Many moments where things arrived and were responded to and built toward the next thing. That is true of the story and true of how stories work. But I also want to say something true about the texture of the seventh year that does not make every month into another development.

Like 271 days was boring. Like home was obvious. _Thump._ *3:00 PM. [SFX: CLOCK. THEN NONE. THEN SEVEN.]* Living room. Not fireplace. Not _COURT_ box. Burned 265 days ago. Just us. Seven. Me. Floor. February. Chest. Sleeping. 3 PM. On time. Adrian. Next to me. 59 BPM. Head on my shoulder. Alex. Other side. Book. Reading. To her. _The House That Was Just Home._ Page 1. “Once upon a time there was a house that was not a court…”

“O-okay…” “Come again?” “…okay, Carlisle.” He smiled. “Good girl.” Just like that, seven minutes was over.

[Ms. Fleming, will you continue the treatment? If you will, don't forget to collect your medicine.] [Ms. Fleming, your condition is quite serious. It will only deteriorate if you don't treat it. Don't give up. If you do, you'll forget everything in seven days.] I looked at the messages from Dr. Chester Richmond for a long time without replying. Perhaps having amnesia was not such a bad thing after all. I could not recall anything worth remembering in my entire life.

In my previous life, I was so moved by their words that I broke down in tears and threw myself into their arms, foolishly thinking I'd finally found a place where I belonged. I thought I'd finally found someone who truly loved me! Yet seven years later, I tore at my wedding dress in despair and threw myself from the Jagger residence, foolishly hoping that such a drastic move would make them finally care about me. But the truth was, no one ever loved me. Now, I felt nothing as if I were made of stone. "Sweetheart, I've prepared so many gifts for you! They're all in the living room. Take whatever you want!" Mom said.

Even destined mates couldn't escape the seven-year itch. The love I'd held with such certainty—its collapse only took an instant.