Simpsons

Elizabeth ascended the final flight of narrow concrete stairs, her footsteps sharp against the silence, each echo swallowed by the desolate stairwell. The air carried the stale tang of damp cement, an industrial scent that felt devoid of warmth or life. Yet, as she neared the top, the atmosphere shifted-imperceptibly at first, but undeniably different. More inviting, as though someone had made a concerted effort to imbue the building with the illusion of warmth.

A weary yet well-intentioned “Welcome” mat lay before the door, its frayed edges curling slightly from wear. To the side, an artificial potted lily stood in forced cheerfulness, its plastic petals undisturbed by time or decay. No lack of windows inhibited the rebellion of floral decoration on this landing, plastic or otherwise. The walls bore a pair of framed paintings, their once-vivid colours muted by age, lending a faint whisper of warmth to the otherwise stark surroundings.

She stepped onto the mat, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag before smoothing the damp fabric of her grey trench-coat. With careful deliberation, she tucked stray strands of hair behind her ears and straightened her posture. A deep breath. A moment’s hesitation.

She knocked.

The door swung open almost instantly, revealing Hank’s towering frame. He filled the doorway entirely, his sheer presence making the small landing feel even more confined. Time had weathered him, but it had not diminished him. The raw strength in his stance, the unyielding breadth of his shoulders . . . these remained unchanged.

“Effie!” Hank bellowed, his voice rich with unrestrained joy, reverberating down the stairwell like a familiar melody. His face split into an unshakable grin, deep lines creasing at the edges, warmth radiating from every expression. In a single motion, he swept her off the ground, lifting her effortlessly as if she were still the small girl who once ran to greet him after school.

“You’re here!”

“Father…” Elizabeth’s voice was muffled through his thick sweater, the scent of cedar and aged leather filling her senses, grounding her.

He set her down gently, his hands large and worn, but brimming with affection. His fingers lingered at her shoulders, gripping as though reassuring himself of her presence. His eyes shimmered with something unspoken, something dangerously close to relief.

“Sorry, Effie. Got excited. I’ve missed ya.”

Elizabeth reached up, wrapping her hands around one of his thick wrists, feeling the familiar warmth beneath his skin. “I have missed you as well,” she murmured, and with that, the guilt seeped in, curling low in her stomach. She had not visited in nearly a year. The last time had been out of necessity, not sentiment . . . helping with the transition from a spacious four-bedroom house to this one-bedroom apartment.

She had been occupied, she told herself.

Her gaze flickered past him. “Is Mother home?”

Hank’s expression shifted slightly, the light in his eyes dimming just enough for her to notice. A pause. Then, softer, “She just takin’ a nap.” He turned, already moving. “I’ll go wake her…”

“Absolutely not,” Elizabeth interrupted, her tone clipped, authoritative. It cut through his movement like the crack of a schoolteacher’s ruler against a desk. “Let her rest.”

Hank halted mid-step, then turned back to her with an exaggeratedly woeful expression, as if she had just scolded him for tracking mud into the house. Elizabeth sighed, allowing her features to soften. She reached out, squeezing his forearm in a gesture of truce. “Father, let her sleep. We can catch up while she rests.”

“How’d an old slugger like me end up with such a refined young lady, huh?” His voice carried a teasing warmth. “Must’ve got all them brains and good manners from your Ma’.” He stepped aside, holding the door open. “Come on in. I’ll get the kettle goin’. Keep your coat on, though… the heat’s broke again.”

Elizabeth raised a brow but shrugged off her trench-coat despite his warning. She hooked it by the collar over an antique wooden coat stand near the door. It looked out of place in the narrow hallway. A souvenir from her parents previous life.

“Have you notified the superintendent? You cannot simply go without heat, particularly with the Winter climate.”

Hank waved off her concern with a dismissive flick of his massive hand. “Already taken care of, Effie. Your old man’s got it handled. Should be back on by tonight or tomorrow mornin’.”

She exhaled, though she did not entirely relinquish her concern. “It is a significant adjustment,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “Moving from the house to… this.”

Hank gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, his touch firm yet gentle. “Don’t you fret about us, Effie,” he said with the confidence of a man who had weathered storms and emerged unscathed. “The Freight Train can handle anything. Heat, cold, stubborn landlords… you name it. Don’t go wastin’ your time worryin’ about us.” He winked, leading her into the living room.

The sight of it made Elizabeth pause.

The fathers old high-back sofa sat in a corner, its floral upholstery faded but intact, its cushions moulded to the shape of countless evenings spent curled in its embrace. Beside it, a two seater. Her mothers spot. Equally as old, but different in design and colour. A pair of mismatched furniture that somehow belonged together, like her parents. The air carried the scent of aged wood and the faintest trace of lavender . . . her mother’s signature touch. She moved toward the couch, running her fingers over the worn fabric, allowing the weight of memory to settle over her.

“I’ll fetch the tea,” Hank said, disappearing into the tiny kitchen, the sound of cabinets opening and closing filling the space.

Alone, Elizabeth allowed her gaze to wander.

One wall of the living room stood as a quiet tribute to Hank’s past. Cherry-wood cabinets displayed the remnants of his boxing career . . . dozens of belts, trophies, and medals, each one polished and arranged with near-reverence. Framed photographs lined the shelves, capturing moments frozen in time, a younger Hank in the ring, arms raised in victory; a wedding portrait of him and her mother, grinning like children who had just pulled off some great mischief.

But it was the centre of the wall that drew her in.

Photographs of her. Carefully arranged, as if each frame had been placed with purpose. She stepped closer, her fingers lightly brushing over the largest one at the heart of the collection . . . her graduation photo. The memory flooded back with sharp clarity. The weight of the cap, the nervous excitement buzzing under her skin, the moment she’d locked eyes with her father in the crowd, his face beaming with admiration.

She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat.

Behind her, the kettle whistled.

Hank stood in the doorway, his presence large but unassuming, his voice dripped with pride as he nodded toward her graduation photo. “The real trophy,” he said softly. The words settled into the room like dust caught in the afternoon light.

He filled a small teapot from the kettle, then moved into the living room with a careful balance that disputed his size, placing the tray down on the small coffee table in front of the sofas. “Apart from your old Ma’, of course.”

Elizabeth felt a lump rise in her throat, the weight of his words pressing against her ribs. Hank poured English tea from the teapot into two mugs, mismatched like the sofas, the sound of liquid filling the ceramic breaking the silence. English tea with milk and sugar, the way her mother had made it for them since she was little. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, drawing comfort from the heat.

“You have always been sentimental, Father.”

“And proud,” Hank added, his lips curling into a grin as he leaned back in his chair with a creak, his large frame sinking and fitting perfectly into the worn fabric. “Always proud.”

“And how have you and Mom been? Are you both adjusting to the new place well?”

Hank exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly, as if carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts. “We’re doin’ good.” His voice had taken on that reflective quality, the kind that only came with age. “Time’s funny, though. Feels like just last week you were here, helpin’ us unpack, and at the same time, feels like we’ve been in this place forever. Time plays funny tricks on ya.”

“But are you content here? Both of you?” Her voice softened. “And your job… how is that going?”

“Effie.” Hank’s voice carried a certainty, the kind that came from years of hard lessons. “Happiness ain’t always ‘bout where ya at, or how long ya been there. It’s about who’s there with ya. You’ll see one day. Yeh… we’re content. Ya Ma’ and me have each other, that’s all that matters.”

Elizabeth smiled. “That’s quite poetic, Father. And the job?”

Hank hesitated, his face tightening as his usual composure wavered. He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers slow and deliberate, eyes darting toward the lounge door as if making sure no one was listening. When he spoke, it was quieter, like the words themselves were heavier. “Lost it last week. They said they had to cut back, and… well… us old guys, we’re always first on the chopping block.”

“Father!” Elizabeth’s voice rose slightly.

“Shh…” Hank whispered hurriedly, eyes flicking toward the door. “Don’t go raisin’ ya voice. Ya Ma’ don’t know yet, and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s her birthday… she don’t need to worry ‘bout this.”

Elizabeth’s brows furrowed, the concern settling in her chest like a stone. “You should have told me.” Her tone was firm, but not unkind. “Do you need financial assistance? I am more than capable of helping with rent, groceries… whatever you require.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” Hank shook his head, lifting his hands as if to physically push the suggestion away. “We’re not there yet, Effie. But I appreciate it. What you can do, though, is let me drop ya off later. Got an interview tonight. Could use the excuse to get out and go there.”

Elizabeth’s concern softened into something like hope. “An interview?”

Hank’s face lit up, a flicker of pride eclipsing the exhaustion in his eyes. “Yeah. I reckon I still got enough gas in the tank for another round. Just gotta land this one.”

“That is wonderful news, Father! Of course, you can drop me off. And I am confident you will secure the position. But remember, my offer stands. If you need anything, you only need to ask.”

Hank’s grin softened into something gentler, something almost shy. “I’m proud as a mule, Effie. Appreciate the offer, but don’t ya worry. I’ll figure things out.”

“Alright, Father,” Elizabeth said, trying to keep the concern from her voice. “Just promise me, promise me you will reach out if things become difficult.”

“I promise.” Hank nodded deeply, exaggerating the motion like he was surrendering. Then, his tone lifted, his grin creeping back like sunlight after a storm. “Now, enough ‘bout me. What about you? Got any news? Maybe a fella? Me and ya Ma’, well…” He chuckled, deep and rumbling. “We’re startin’ to wonder if we’ll ever get grandkids.”

Elizabeth groaned, flopping back against the couch. “Honestly, Father? The pressure is relentless. Between you and Mother, I might as well draft a formal résumé for my personal life.”

Hank laughed gently. “Come on now, I’m just sayin’… don’t make us wait too long. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wanting somethin’ to look forward to. Don’t let work rule ya life. Ain’t nothin’ so important that ya benching ya happiness.”

Elizabeth’s frustration melted into something else entirely, her posture shifting forward. “Actually Father, my work it is important. And it makes me happy.” She sounded offended. “I am making substantial breakthroughs. Significant ones. My research is coming together in ways I could not have predicted.”

Hanks face said apology, where his mouth said nothing. He appeared to be momentarily trying to form a sentence which wouldn’t get him into trouble. Strength was his only strength . . . not words.

Elizabeth caught the hesitation and let out a small laugh, waving it off. “Never mind. I apologise…I tend to become overly impassioned about my field of work. Let’s change the subject.”

Hank shook his head. “Mind science, right?

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Noetic science., Father”

Hank shifted in his chair, his bulk pressing the wood until it gave a long creak. “Don’t matter,” he said, his voice rough but not unkind. “I wanna hear ‘bout it. Ya Ma’ knows. Don’t bench me, Effie.”

Elizabeth’s lips pressed into a line. “No, Father. That would be entirely tedious for you. It’s a highly complex field.” She winced at her own phrasing, watching him for the flicker of injury. If it came, he masked it.

The shadow of Hanks brow cutting deeper into his eyes. “Don’t care. Just tell it like ya talkin’ to a kid.”

Her hesitation hung with the ticking of the kitchen clock. She threaded her fingers together, then set her cup beside his. When she finally spoke, her voice had the tone of someone balancing a book on a narrow shelf.

“We have known that observation influences particles since the 1920s. Scientists such as Einstein and Niels Bohr discovered that subatomic particles behave as waves when unobserved. They even developed a simple experiment called the double-slit experiment to demonstrate it. When no one observes the particle, it exists in multiple states simultaneously, as a probability wave. But the moment an observer measures it, the wave collapses into a single definitive outcome. That is the foundation of quantum mechanics.”

Hank’s eyebrows crept up. “That’s how ya talk to kids?”

Elizabeth let out a laugh, reaching across to pat his hand. Her touch was brief, a flicker of warmth. “Sorry. Let me put it even simpler. Nothing is set in stone until someone looks at it. Until then, everything is just a big blurry mess of maybes.”

He scratched at his chin, the rasp loud in the quiet living-room, then grinned wide enough to split his face. “Yeh, I get that. Don’t know if I believe it. But… I get what ya sayin’.”

“Believe it, Father. And now my research is presenting proof that human observation is not passive.”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”

“Up until now the world has always believed that life is simply a cosmic accident. Random event. The big bang. The right size ball of rock circling the right size of star. Goldilocks zones, liquid water. Life existing via just luck. That consciousness arose from happenstance. But what if we had to exist? What if consciousness is fundamental to the universe’s design? The three fundamental tools of reality. Consciousness. Space. Time.”

She realised too late how much she’d let spill out. Her words filled the kitchen like steam, and she half expected them to choke him. But Hank surprised her. He repeated his earlier phrase, slow and deliberate.

“Who… Where… When…” He said proudly.

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “We are not merely observers, Father. We are participants. Reality is not fixed until we engage with it. That is precisely what I am researching. How consciousness might do more than merely collapse a probability wave. I believe it actively shapes the outcome.”

Her eyes flicked around the kitchen, searching for something plain enough to carry the weight of her meaning.

Then she caught it.

“Father, do you still watch The Simpsons?”

“Yeh. The cartoon, right?” His mouth tugged into the ghost of a grin.

“Yes, the cartoon.” Her voice sharpened with excitement. “Have you ever heard of ‘Deja D’oh’?”

Hank shook his head.

“It’s just a conspiracy theory. People on the internet believe that the writers of The Simpsons somehow predict the future… hence the name, Deja D’oh.”

That hooked him. “Can they?…”

“Well… there are numerous instances,” her eyes bright. “In the year 2000 they correctly anticipated Trump’s presidency. Then, in 2015, when he announced his candidacy, a clip emerged of him descending an escalator… an image that precisely mirrors a scene from that episode. Even minute details, such as a supporter dropping a sign in the background, align perfectly.”

Hank frowned, lines carving deeper into his forehead. “Yeh, I seen that. Could have been for fun. Everyone loves The Simpsons.”

“Father, that’s not the only time it’s happened. In 1998, the show also forecasted Disney’s acquisition of 20th Century Fox… an event that transpired 20 years later.”

His arms folded, thick and certain, but his brow lifted. “Any more?”

“Yes.” Her voice lifted with the word, almost a gasp. “In 2005, they projected that Canada would legalise cannabis, and it transpired 13 years later. In 2012, they showcased a scene nearly identical to Lady Gaga’s Super Bowl performance, down to the precise mechanism she used to descend from the ceiling… five years before it happened. And in 2014, they depicted Richard Branson engaging in commercial spaceflight, an endeavour he embarked upon in 2021.”

“Effie, they done a lotta shows. Ya do somethin’ enough times, ya gunna hit the mark once in a while.”

“I considered that,” she said softly, voice cooled but steady. “But that doesn’t explain why most other TV shows haven’t managed similar results. And the accuracy of their predictions is phenomenal. In a 1998 episode titled The Wizard of Evergreen Terrace, Homer is seen scribbling an equation on a blackboard. That equation, to a striking degree of accuracy, mirrors the mathematical formula used to predict the mass of the Higgs boson particle… a discovery that wouldn’t be confirmed for another 14 years. And in a 2010 episode, Milhouse speculated that MIT professor Bengt Holmström would receive a Nobel Prize. Six years later, he did. These are not broad, generalised predictions… they are astoundingly precise.”

Hank exhaled, slow, the sound of disbelief trying to find its shape. “Wait. So, ya tellin’ me they can tell the future?”

“The internet speculates that… I personally have my own theory, and my research is showing significant evidence that I’m correct. I strongly suspect that it’s the complete inverse of predicting the future.”

“What’s the opposite of tellin’ the future?” Hank asked delicately, like a cat walking between eggshells, worried he may have interpreted Elizabeth’s words.

She adjusted her posture, as though presenting a lecture to a class, her excitement tempered by gravity. “I have conducted extensive research on these so-called coincidences. I’ve analysed the data, run the numbers and uncovered a pattern… a rationale for why The Simpsons… and a rare few other shows appear to foresee future events, while most television shows do not.” She paused, her eyes catching the thin light over his shoulder. “The answer lies in repeated viewership.”

Hank shifted again, the chair groaning beneath him. “Re-watchin’? Re-runs?” His voice slow, pitted with doubt.

“Yes, Father!” Her enthusiasm spilled across the table. “The Simpsons is one of the most frequently re-watched programs in history! On average, a single episode accumulates between twenty and thirty million views over a decade.”

“Is that a lot?”

“No, not really. A blockbuster film can easily acquire fifty million views during its initial release. But here’s the distinction… The Simpsons benefits from repetition. A devoted viewer revisits the same episode four to eight times in a decade. That’s what makes it uniquely enduring.”

Hank stayed silent. Elizabeth slipped into the pause.

“During my collegiate years, I used a learning technique called Rote Memorisation. Repetition, as a way to commit information to memory. Everyone does it, consciously or not. It links repeated information to pre-existing knowledge, encoding it into long-term memory.”

He stared at her, caught between comprehension and fog. She pressed on.

“Consider this… when countless individuals repeatedly watch episodes of The Simpsons, they embed those events into memory as if they were genuine. Subconsciously, their brains begin to interpret them not as hypothetical, but as certainties. Without realising it, they influence reality, nudging the universe toward a future where those events are statistically more probable.”

Hank’s hands went still on his knees. The quiet thickened. When he finally spoke, it was softer. “So… folks watchin’ this stuff, over and over, makes it… happen?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Not intentionally, but yes. If enough people do it, they begin to non-randomise probabilities. The wave collapses, and the universe selects an outcome closer to what’s embedded in collective memory.”

The silence stretched. Then Hank’s grin cracked wide again, his laugh low and warm. “So… you mind-scientists spend all day watchin’ cartoons, or do ya actually do any work?”

Elizabeth gasped in mock offence, hand pressed to her chest. “I’ll have you know, Father, I work exceedingly hard! In fact, I was at Sunny Meadow just this morning collecting and analysing data. If all goes well, the results should serve to further strengthen my thesis.”

Hank’s grin faded abruptly, the warmth in his expression flickering out like a snuffed candle. His broad shoulders stiffened, his posture suddenly rigid. “Sunny Meadow?” he said slowly, his deep voice hardening. “Ya jokin’, right? Tell me ya jokin’, Effie.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “No,” she replied cautiously, “some of the patients… ”

Hank cut her off, his expression darkening. “Ya mean that place… the loony bin? Ya ain’t got no business bein’ anywhere near there!”

Elizabeth’s voice was measured and precise. “Father, I am not a child. I am more than capable of looking after myself. And I am finally obtaining the data necessary to support my thesis. My research is showing a much higher probability of particle collapse when testing individuals who display…” She hesitated, carefully selecting her words. “…unusual neurological activity.”

Hank rose from of his chair, his imposing frame looming like a storm cloud on the horizon. His frustration bubbled over, thick and unfiltered. “Ain’t no job or big idea worth puttin’ yourself in danger like that! Ya hear me? You’re my kid. My little girl. Ya don’t need to be messin’ with stuff like that!”

“Father, you fail to grasp the significance of this,” Elizabeth countered, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. “This research could be groundbreaking… it could explain so much. Perhaps even everything.”

Hank paced, his boots thudding against the wooden floor with each heavy step. His voice softened, but there was still an edge, a sharpness that hadn’t dulled. “I don’t get it, Effie. You’re smart, got so much goin’ for ya. Why throw it all away workin’ in a place like that?”

Elizabeth’s voice hushed but insistent, laced with the kind of urgency that only arises when one believes they are on the precipice of revelation. “Father, do you realise what unites all of humanity? Something that has persisted for thousands of years, spanning every race, every faith… even the most isolated of civilisations? Do you understand what connects us all? Separates us from the animals?”

Hank stopped pacing, his brow furrowed deeply, suspicion creeping into his expression. “What?” he demanded, his tone rough, though curiosity flickered beneath it.

“We pray,” Elizabeth said simply.

Hank’s face twisted into a scowl, his arms crossing tightly over his broad chest. “Prayin’? What’s that got to do with anything? I ain’t never prayed!”

“Not in the conventional sense, perhaps,” Elizabeth countered, her articulation crisp and measured. “But you’ve wished. We all have. People silently articulate their hopes in their minds all the time, whether they choose to label it as prayer or not. For millennia, we have constructed elaborate monuments… temples, cathedrals, sacred altars… devoted to that very instinct. Why do you think that is?”

Hank grunted. “Not everyone’s into that religious stuff.”

“Certainly,” she conceded, “but even the most devout atheists possess aspirations. Show me a single person who hasn’t turned to hope in moments of crisis. When the car refuses to start, when finances grow dire, when awaiting that phone call from the doctor. That is when people surrender, if only for a fleeting moment, to the act of wishing… whether spoken aloud or not. It is intrinsic to who we are. And I believe it’s connected to my research. An old way of collapsing probability.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and weighty. Hank’s arms slowly dropped to his sides, his shoulders slumping slightly. Her words had struck something within him, something unspoken and raw.

“So ya sayin’… everyone’s wishin’ for somethin’, even if they don’t know it?”

His gaze faltered, and for a moment, he looked smaller, burdened by something heavy and unshakeable. His voice dropped low, barely more than a whisper. “I still don’t like it, Effie. Don’t like ya bein’ there, ‘round folks like that. I don’t care what big thing ya think ya got cooking… it ain’t worth ya gettin’ hurt.”

Yet even as he spoke, the words rang hollow, as if he were attempting to convince himself as much as her. Wishing. Hoping. Hadn’t he been doing the same thing? Wishing for steady work, something solid to keep them afloat. But that wasn’t all, was it?

His eyes flicked toward the closed door where Mary rested. His chest tightened. He had been wishing for her too. Wishing she’d get better. Telling himself it was just a cold, just the wear and tear of age. But deep down, in the places he refused to linger, he was desperately hoping she would prove him right.

“I hope you two aren’t arguing on my birthday,” Mary’s voice cut through the tension like a warm knife through ice. She stood in the doorway, her frame fragile beneath the oversized dressing gown, yet her presence still carried a quiet authority.

Hank straightened immediately, his frustration melting into concern. He was at her side in a heartbeat, his large hands gentle as they found her arm. “Sorry Tiger.” he murmured.

Elizabeth also, stepped forward, enveloping her mother in a warm embrace. “Happy birthday, Mother.”

Mary’s lips curled into a soft smile. But as Elizabeth pulled back, still holding her mother’s hands, a flicker of concern crossed her face. Her smile faltered. “Mother, you’re absolutely freezing.”

Hank exhaled sharply. “She’s always cold, Effie,” he muttered, “I keep tellin’ her to see a doctor, but she won’t listen. Maybe you can knock some sense into her.”

“I am perfectly fine,” Mary insisted, waving them off with a dismissive chuckle. “An extra blanket on the bed will suffice.”

Elizabeth wasn’t convinced. Her mother’s complexion was paler than usual, and the way she had moved across the room was slower, more deliberate . . . each step taking more from her than she wished to admit.

Trying to mask his unease, Hank forced a smile and gestured toward the kitchen. “Lemme get the kettle on,” he said, his voice forced light. “And, uh, Effie was just tellin’ me about all the men she’s been datin’. Says we should start makin’ room for some grandkids.” He threw Elizabeth a teasing grin, but his voice wavered just slightly as he turned toward the kitchen.

“Oh, wow!” Mary gasped, her face brightening. “How very exciting! Effie Gina Malone, you must tell me everything!”

Elizabeth sighed, shooting her father a look as his broad frame disappeared into the kitchen.