In her hand, the heart-fruit was a dichotomy of flesh and potential—warm and chilly. It was heavy with the weight of her decision, heavier than any fruit should be. The picking itself was not the decision; she had plucked it. The consumption made the decision. Eating meant reuniting. Discarding meant releasing. Tatiana placed the fruit to her lips as she hung from the tall limb, the mountain wind pulling at her clothing. From its skin peered the picture of her own face, calm and waiting. She didn't think twice. She took a bite. There was no crunching sound as the skin broke. On her tongue, it disintegrated like mist, unleashing a stream of golden light that tasted like earth, sunlight, and patient, quiet growth instead of juice. It was the flavour of the tree itself, with its deep roots, years-counting rings, and abundant shade. The light rooted inside her and spilt down her throat as she swallowed. A lovely, awful anchoring. Her spine lengthened and stiffened as she felt it grab h

The thick wool blanket smelt of Alexander and cedar. It was a lovely, stinging reminder that she could feel when it scratched against her infant flesh. They held her. The last sticky remnants of sap were washed away by Tatiana's hot, human tears as she sobbed into the hollow of his shoulder. His arms around her were genuine, quivering with the frailty of an elderly man and a love that was stronger than time and wood. He made no enquiries. There was no need for an explanation from the man who had watered a tree bearing her name and experienced its peculiar sadness. The miracle was the solution in itself. He just held her, rocking a little, his lips against her dark hair that now smelt of dirt and greenery. Her sobs eventually turned to hiccups. She drew back just enough to give him a look. His face served as a roadmap for a life without her, with each line representing a chapter she had chosen not to share. However, his eyes remained the same. There was now a silent, wonder-filled ca

The route, which was covered in pine needles and glowed with light that struggled through a thick canopy, was a forgotten vein in the mountain's flesh. A phantom breadcrumb trail that appeared to disappear into the woodland floor where they stepped and then resurface a few yards later was the butterfly's dust that glimmered ahead. The guide was patient and silent. Alexander led the way, using a stick to split low branches, his elderly body moving with a cautious grace; Tatiana trailed behind him, clutching the blanket, her bare feet finding unexpected stability on the soft, needle-strewn ground; and Mira came last, her basket hooked over her arm, her face a changing canvas of worry, interest, and a reluctant wonder. Nobody said anything. The crunch beneath their feet, the distant cries of a hawk, and their breathing were the only sounds. The smell of damp stone and wild mint filled the air, which became sweeter and colder. They followed the dust-trail past a huge, moss-covered boul

The crayon, a thin obsidian wand that promised erasure rather than creation, was a void in the lamplight. Before Tatiana's thoughts could raise an objection, her body moved. With her hands locking on the icy chains over the baby's head, she rushed for the swing rather than the Phantom. "Avoid touching her!" With his elderly body moving at an unnatural pace, Alexander was a step behind her and positioned himself between the Phantom and the child. Watching a nightmarish version of her father attack her own baby self, Mira-50 hung back with her palms to her lips. With a little, icy grin on his lips, the Phantom stood up straight. He didn't engage in combat. He put the crayon in his pocket. With his gaze fixed on Tatiana, he reiterated, "The choice was always yours." "You simply lacked the guts to go through with it. Even when the narrative broke you, you held on to it. I'm giving away a delete key. "You're giving people oblivion!" her Alexander spit out. "You believe that taking away

The quiet had become respectful rather than oppressive. Like the instant after the first chord is struck but before the song starts, the air buzzed with latent potential. With one arm embracing the sleeping baby and the other around Mira-7, who snuggled into her side with wide eyes, Tatiana knelt on the smooth, fresh grass. Young and whole, with both his old-man aches and his phantom scars removed, Alexander stood watch in front of them, gazing at the tree as though it were a loaded weapon painted as a sacrifice for peace.It was a lovely tree. Its silky, silver-white bark resembled sea glass. Its leaves, which resembled little shields, were a bright, hopeful green. And the fruits—each one a small sun—hung like lanterns, lighting up the dappled shade beneath the boughs. Tatiana's bones throbbed with the indisputable number: *153*."Are they good?" With the pragmatic awe of a kid, Mira-7 muttered."I'm not sure," Tatiana muttered. They had no malicious feelings. They had a neutral feel