1946, 5 Years Later

"A+...A+...A+..." whispered Peter's father as he recalled Peter's grades in awe. "Those are amazing grades, Peter! How did you manage those in just a year?"

"Intuition." 

His mother rested her hands on his broad shoulders as she hovered over him, proud that her son was no longer the 'miserable wreck' that he was the preceding year. 

Later that night, Peter dressed in his undergarments and flopped onto the creaky mattress of his bed. He felt the urge to write in his notebook. He searched and searched for it, but only in vain. He sighed with frustration as he looked through the messiest drawer in his room, which was, truthfully, not messy at all. After rummaging through the drawer, scowling, he found a book with a flimsy, deteriorating cover and what looked like water-soaked pages, from the way that they curved and flopped when turned.

He looked inside the cover and found a name.

John Baker, 1901

He flipped the page twice, curious, revealing neat, tall words that inscribed...

My family: 

Mary (Turner) Baker, my wife: 

A black-and-white photo, clear as mud, showed a nondescript, pretty lady with light curls reaching to her lower neck. She was not smiling, instead earnestly staring into the Brownie camera, body slightly turned to the viewer's left. 

Matthew Baker, my son: 

Another equivocal picture, taken around the same time, with a skinny boy the age of four that Peter was sure was his father. He was wearing a gray-striped beret with light-colored straps over his white, ironed school shirt. His pants were dark, and what looked like, black drill fabric. He was, like Mary, frowning slightly, his big brown eyes focused on the photographer's camera.

Peter smiled at the picture warmly and turned the pages. They were inscriptions of John's daily life out on the harsh oceans as a sailor. Apparently, the curved manuscript stopped after the note on September 17, 1903. Instead, messier words were written on the following page.

Dear Matthew Baker,

I am afraid to inform you that your father has passed away during a typhoon on his way to the Vatican. The funeral will take place in roughly two months, only your mother knows the exact date. You and your family will have gained approximately $2,000 for funeral expenses and inheritance. The will is in the hands of your uncle Michael.

With Regrets,

Mr. Walt Saloger

Peter looked on the next pages, desperate for something else, with the obvious thought that squeaked, "He's dead! What else is he going to write? Afterlife on the shores?"

Peter flipped backwards to the next empty page and took a fountain pen out of his top drawer.

A boy with brown eyes

Reads that his father dies

His hands are trembling

Tears assembling

He mourns his loss

Remembering his last farewell to father was cross

How could this happen?

Peter ended the question mark with a lingering ink, giving the droplet a darker appearance. He scanned down the page, breaking into a soft smile as he heard his parents' feet creak on the stairs, peeking in. He was almost definite that they wanted to know his secret for perfect grades. But he couldn't explain it. He developed an urge for education, which cast his "friendship" into oblivion. Girls were finding him more attractive. Although not as revolted by love as he was before, he still thought the giggling and pointing at him at school, working feverishly, was quite annoying. All in all, he was confident. The main reason? The voices stopped!