Tatiana's soul was marked by the ice-blue eyes. Those eyes followed her through the happy chaos that ensued, the medic's departure, the first feeding, and the silent, sobbing adoration. That icy, well-known blue met hers each time she gazed at the bundle in Mira's arms. Benjamin's eyes were devoid of malice and reduced to their most basic function: evaluating quality. The eyes of an heir. It had not been a full exorcism. The wings, the outward sign of the Phoenix legacy, had been severed by her. However, she was unable to remove the blood. Benjamin's genetic curse, the Whitaker lineage, had permeated this new life via Mira, Alexander, and beyond. The evidence was in the eyes. The narrative had been condensed, not dodged. Now, the name Ash seemed like a mean joke. The frigid ashes of a dynasty that has burnt to ashes, with one coal still alive, not the ashes of rebirth. In a haze of fear, Tatiana navigated the following day. She felt the weight of those blue eyes as she folded small

The coal lump felt heavy and chilly in Tatiana's hand, a physical reminder of the crown that had momentarily graced her granddaughter. It seemed to radiate the number 180 in a vibration that echoed in her ageing joints rather than in light. She had a ticking clock in her hand, a countdown etched in fossilised fire.Mira was in a frantic state, alternately holding Ash and gazing at Tatiana with wide, frightened eyes. "What's going on? Who is she? Who are you? Panic erupted in her voice.At last, Alexander regained his ability to move. The voice of the man who had made this his home, now stretched thin over abyssal terror, was solid and low as he approached Mira. "Mira. Take a look at me. She is our daughter. Her name is Ash. That's all. He shouted it with an intensity that brooked no debate, even if he didn't believe it. It was the safeguard against insanity, the fiction they would henceforth live by. "Something in the air, something. A collective delusion. The height. Anxiety Mira clu

Tatiana's thinking was short-circuited by the paradox of seeing her daughter as a toddler, standing on the threshold of the cabin that had just engulfed the house of her adult self. This was Mira from another level of the narrative, a recorded moment from the history of ordinary joy. She broke every rule of narrative order by being here, right now.The park's blank joy was absent from Mira-7's gaze. They carried a weight of knowledge that no seven-year-old should have, and they were serious. She glanced at her father standing in the doorway, at her adult mother crying on the floor, at the baby in her arms, and then at Tatiana, the grandma who was once again her own age.Mira-7 noted, as if taking attendance, "You're all here." "All right. The circle is nearly finished.First to speak, Alexander's voice was scratchy with shock. "Mira... my love? How are you doing here?As if to explain that the sky was blue, the toddler remarked simply, "The hallway has many doors." "I discovered one t

They didn't discuss it. The creature developing between her shoulder blades couldn't handle words because they were too little and human. The small wing appeared pitiful and hideous in the chilly dawn light. Over a framework of bone too thin to be real, the "parchment" was a translucent membrane veined with exquisite crimson and gold threads. It twitched in rhythm with her heartbeat and was about the size of a huge moth's wing.Alexander's quiet was a stronghold. Every morning, with the clinical detachedness of a gardener examining a blight, he studied it. He seems to have been waiting for this, as evidenced by the bleak, resigned recognition in his eyes in addition to the terror. More than the wing itself, it made her uneasy.On the third day, Tatiana whispered in a shaky voice, "We have to cut it off." It had expanded. Not much, but enough that, if she didn't wear her hair down, the tip of it now peeked over her dress' collar.Without glancing at her, Alexander shook his head. It's

The little Mira's gaze was an accusation that went directly to the soul without using words. With the silent, motionless army of her daughter's self gathered around her, Tatiana stood motionless in the white beach. Every iteration of Mira was a juror seeing her mother's amnesia, and the playground served as a courthouse.There was no blinking from the child on the swing. She gripped the shackles tightly with her tiny fists. She continued, but her voice was not that of a youngster. It was a chorus, blended with the crone's rasp, the toddler's murmurs, and the teen's clarity. The sterilised air echoed faintly."You neglected to remember me."Tatiana's thinking unravelled the paradoxical words. To forget the loops, the war, and the epic, she had consumed the fruit. However, she was supposed to remember this child, this particular version, Mira-7, the one from the cabin, the one she ate breakfast with. the contented life. the easy life. Had she likewise eliminated the anchor of this reali