The chalkboard became her hourbook, and the classroom her monastery. Tatiana slipped into a hallowed, harsh beat. Each morning, she arrived as the sun cleared the mountains. She would open Room 101, welcome the quiet numbers, and get ready for her lessons, which would include basic language, elementary maths, and tales of amiable animals. She had a quiet voice, precise gestures, and a kind of detached tenderness when she taught. She was an excellent instructor. The kids gained knowledge. They gave her a smile. Her most focused pupil was Mira-7, a quiet, courteous stranger who went by the name "Ms. Everly" and was her own daughter. And every afternoon, Tatiana would go back to her empty classroom after the last bell had rung and the last satchel had vanished out the front doors. With the rubber in her hand, she would stand in front of the chalkboard and deliver her actual lecture. One number she would erase. 169. A sweep of the felt. As she looked out her window, a new crack appeare

She closed the pomegranate between her fingers. The light inside throbbed against her palm in sync with a heartbeat that wasn't her own, and it was warm, like a stone left in the sun. In her hand she felt the weight of a chapter, a thick pocket of consequence, emotion, and time. Did she consume the tale by removing it from the stem and eating its seeds? Or did she completely reject its story and crush it against the swing set's metal pole? The decision was made for her before she could make it. The pomegranate responded when it sensed her touch. It was picked right away. It exploded. With brightness instead of violence. She, the playground, Mira-40, and everything else were engulfed in a silent, concussive explosion of pure, white brightness that exploded from the fruit. Form, colour, and sound were all obliterated by the light's absoluteness. It was the white of a virgin canvas, of a blank page, of a scream without a voice yet. Tatiana had no sensation, no weight, and was blind.

In contrast to the dreamlike whiplash, Tatiana felt a numbing agony as the chilly grass dew crept through her clothing. Lying on the grounds of a retirement home that was a fossil of her own future, she was twenty-five in body and ancient in soul, watching her former self gaze at a wall. The number 165, a decision written in phantom light, was reflected in the glass. Her young limbs obeyed with a mocking ease as she forced herself to stand. As she walked toward the window, the glowing number and the image of the elderly woman were suddenly obscured by her own refreshed reflection. A pane of glass connects two of her selves, separated by a decision and a mouthful of magical stew. She looked inside. That Tatiana, who was getting old, wasn't just staring at nothing. She was wiggling her lips. Counting. Additionally, the reflection in the window changed as she counted. The dim room was no longer merely reflected in it. It turned into a watery doorway, a screen. The number 165 changed

On her plate, the pastry-fruit appeared to pulsate. It was craftsmanship, not magic, but in this tale, the craftsmanship was magic. A recollection, a temptation, had been baked into the very crust by Mira-50. Tears carved clear paths through the dust on the old Tatiana's cheeks as she ate her slice with the slow, sensuous focus of the famished. Her eyes appeared to light up with each mouthful, and her back briefly straightened. Even as it brought her loss to light, she was being revived by the taste of the love she had given up. With a gentle, melancholy grin, Mira-50 observed her before turning it to the younger, greying Tatiana. Proceed, my love. It is not going to bite. It's only pie. However, it wasn't. Tatiana was aware of the guidelines. This version of her daughter, the baker of memory, was consuming food provided by a tale keeper in order to comply with its conditions. The pie would take action. Either that or it would speed up her ageing to match the watcher's, or... Her

Tatiana was left alone with the sighing of the leaves that held her name as the sound of Alexander's departing footsteps melted into the whisper of the woodland. A stunning, living tribute to her function as an absence, the tree stood as a verdict. to be recalled as a presence-shaped hole that is lovingly tended, rather than as a person. She couldn't abandon it in this state. She needed to see. The top fruit, the one that might symbolise the climax of all this missing, had to tell her what it had to say. The branches were low and robust, and the trunk was smooth but provided for easy grips. Her restored body moved with the grace of a climber, a talent from a past life she was unable to recall. Passing the stone-fruit labels of certain losses, she rose.No Kiss Goodbye on the First Day of School. No comfort due to a broken arm. Front row empty on wedding day.They were all a pain in her heart. Above the canopy of grief, she ascended higher into the thinner air, where the branches were