LtCmdr Connor Dewitt - This Day Every Year

[Tim]

((OOC: Trigger Warning - This piece contains what I wrote for this year’s Writing Challenge. It is about the loss of a family member. And I wanted to weave it into Connor’s live and not only have it as a stand-alone piece))

((Connor’s and Ayemet’s quarters, USS Khitomer, docked at DS33))

The doors to Lieutenant Commander Connor Dewitt’s quarters slid open with their familiar whisper. He didn’t step in right away. He just stood there for a second, hand still on the edge of the doorway, staring at the dark interior like it might bite.

The shift had been brutal. And he had promised Ayemet to do something about it, but this day was different. Long hours in the crawlways rerouting plasma conduits after an imminent sensor grid overload. He could still feel the residual static on his skin. But that wasn’t what wore him down.

It was the date. Again. He stepped inside. The lights adjusted slowly to a low, ambient glow, as if the ship already knew he did not want brightness tonight. The room was tidy. Habit, not energy. That standard-issue Starfleet couch. A workstation with half-finished diagnostics. A small, framed photo by the replicator: Christine in mid-laugh, wind-blown hair, an old Earth amusement park behind her.

He didn’t look at it too long. Instead, he unzipped his uniform jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch, then rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. For just a second he saw Ayemet’s look when she saw that he was abandoned his own Tidiness Protocols for a moment.

C. Dewitt: Computer, play something random. Preferably no Klingon opera.

There was a pause. Then came the soft tap of piano keys, a breath, and the swell of strings. Connor blinked. He listened to the text. The words filled the room like a ghost. He did not move. The melody of that song from Hamilton grabbed his chest with a grip that was far too familiar. He exhaled slowly.

He let the song play. Not because he could bear it, but because he could not turn it off. Not tonight. Not on this night. After a moment, he stood up and crossed to the storage drawer by the bed. It took him longer than it should have to open it. Inside, carefully folded beneath an old academy blanket, was a small, battered plush tiger. Its fur had once been orange, though it had faded over time to something more like dust and memory. The seams near its paw were loose. From the many hairs it once had, only two were remaining. He stared at it, then picked it up gently.

C. Dewitt: ::whispering:: Hey, old friend…

He returned to the couch, tiger in hand, and let himself sink back into the comfort. The song from Hamilton was still playing. His eyes fluttered closed. The melody was soft now, as if coming from somewhere far away. It sounded like the buzz of that treehouse speaker, hidden in the branches of memory.

And then the weariness took him. And the music followed him down.

((A hospital bed, San Francisco, Somewhere in Connor’s mind))

Christine had been fighting. She did not know for how long. In this place, that was neither dream nor waking, time unraveled like thread. The battle had long slipped from her hands. She no longer remembered the sting of IVs or the sterile hush of the hospital. Her body was still, but her mind flickered in whispers; memories and songs, the echo of laughter from a live that was no longer within reach. She was tired. Not just the kind of tired that sleep could mend, but the deep and slow kind that drips into your soul. She knew that the end was coming and that there was no more fight left.

She was not afraid anymore.

She was just waiting.

Somewhere far above she could feel warmth. A hand in hers, a thumb brushing her cold knuckles. Another hand on her forehead. Her parents. Their presence gave her guidance. Like a lighthouse in a sea of darkness, dim but steady. She wanted to reach out and tell them that it was okay. That they did not have to keep holding on. But the words stayed trapped inside her chest.

There was another voice. It was her brother, Connor. He had been here a lot over the last days and weeks.

C. Dewitt: Hey Christine… ::pause, weak voice:: I brought someone.

She felt it before she understood. A familiar weight pressed against her ribs. Something soft and small.

The tiger.

Her tiger. The little washed-out plush she had kept since she was four. It’s fur was worn at the edges, the hair had been cut by a younger, more healthy version of herself. She used to clutch it to her chest like a shield. On hard nights or before auditions. After the hospital visits. Her brother more than once wanted her to name it. She never did, stubborn as she was.

C. Dewitt: I figured you wanted him to be here…

The room went quiet again. Christine drifted.

She stood at center stage. A soft spotlight warmed her face, wooden floor beneath her feet. Beyond that light, the theatre was dark but she knew there was an audience out there. Among them her family, waiting, holding their breath. She was in costume. Eliza’s blue dress, her hair pulled back. The silence was not empty, it was filled with anticipation.

She remembered this. The way her heart had raced. Not from fear, but from the thrill of living. Then someone called her name. Not from memory, but from the present. Connor again.

C. Dewitt: I don’t know if you can hear me, I just hope you can. I think you can.

A sound clicked, the buzz of a small speaker that they usually had in their tree house. Then came the opening notes. A piano, a pause. The rise of strings.

Song: Let me tell you what I wish I’d known…

She felt a ripple going through her body. A sensation that she had not even deemed possible anymore. The music. Her music. Hamilton. It did not come all at once. It felt like the color returned to a dark world. One line at a time. Lyrics that she knew by heart. The rhythm that had tucked into her bones.

She stepped forward on that stage. Her voice rose with the melody, bold and bright. She sang not as the girl lying in that hospital bed, but as the star. The star of her Hamilton production. The star of her own life.

In the dark her family listened. Her mother held her hand a little tighter. Her father stood beside the bad fighting to keep his composure. Her brother sat next to her, his lips moving with every word. The tiger was clutched under Christine’s limp hand.

Inside, the stage blazed to life. The lights, the movement. A chorus behind her. She spun, smiling, alive. Her feet knew every step. Her mouth every syllable. The music carried her, it lifted her. She did not feel the weight anymore. No pain, just the pulse of the song. She felt free.

And then the final part of the song began. The tempo slowed. Christine stepped forward, barefoot now. The lights were softer. She looked out into the dark that she knew was filled with her parents, with Connor and the tiger. She could not see their faces. She felt them. And then she sang the last lines.

In the hospital room, the song played low. Connor’s hand pressed gently over hers. The monitor she had been attached to began to slow. The beeps farther apart. Her lips did not move, but a single tear came from her closed eye. One final breath.

One final note.

Silence.

Christine stood alone on the stage, still illuminated by the soft light. No more music was playing, just stillness. But not empty. It was that kind of stillness that comes from the last chord when an audience was still frozen before the applause.

She smiled and the curtain fell.

((Present Day, Connor’s quarters))

Connor awoke slowly. For a moment, he did not remember falling asleep. He lay still on the couch, arms curled around the tiger. The music had long since stopped. What lingered was a quiet that did not feel empty. For once, it felt full. Warm. Like the silence that follows the last note of a song you never wanted to end.

There was no pain this time. No sting in the chest clawing at the edges of his thoughts. Just a calm, strange and unfamiliar, but welcome. His eyes blinked open and rested on the photo near the replicator. Christine, frozen mid-laugh, almost seemed to look right back at him.

Then he remembered.

C. Dewitt: ::whispering:: Happy birthday, Chris...

The tiger was still tucked against him, worn and small in his arms. He gave it a gentle squeeze. Maybe the dream had only been a dream. But for the first time in years, it did not feel like he had lost her again. It felt like she had come back for a little while.

And that, for today, was enough.

NT/END

LtCmdr Connor Dewitt
Chief Engineer & Second Officer
USS Khitomer
A239901CD3