In the little white cup, the espresso was a black star. The taste was like a key turning in a long-locked door after Tatiana drank. It didn't bring back memories of gunshots or threats muttered in a warehouse. It made the memory of possibility accessible. Their first date tasted just as good. The concept of it, not the actual, tense coffee spill that had served as a prelude to empires and ashes. The straightforward, anxious hope. The way Alexander had grinned before he realised the significance of his own name, the warmth of the cup in her hands, and the smell of the rain on the sidewalk outside. Without the awful awareness of the end, it was the beginning. It was a lonely, ideal time. No loops are fastened. Anticipating the dregs, she lowered the cup. However, the cup was once again full. The immaculate, boiling, dark liquid swirled. She drank more. This time, it tasted like a calm Tuesday morning in the future, with Alexander's bare feet on cool tile, the sound of a newspaper be

The universe resolved into a transition rather than another recollection. Tatiana was falling—not through space, but down a speeding, silent tunnel of phantom pictures and streaking numbers. She had glimpses of Mira riding a bike at the age of ten. Twelve-year-old Mira, fighting over a phone. Thirteen-year-old Mira sobbing over a yearbook. These were generic, global milestones, not their recollections. The years of a typical childhood she was speeding through. A number that streaked by was associated with each flash: 127… 126… 125… She was rejecting the gradual, linear progression and skipping grades at the school of everyday life. The fast-forward was forceful and confusing. Then she fell with a gentle bump. The soft, well-kept grass had her on her hands and knees. The smell of faraway charcoal grills and freshly cut grass filled the cold air. The soft creak of metal and the quiet laughing of youngsters took the place of the cafeteria's sound. A park. Another one. It was a late

Mira-18 was a ballerina at the end of a horrible, beautiful ballet, standing on the brink of life. The only traces of structured narrative were the chalk numerals that sparkled under her feet. Beyond the last square, there was a stark, featureless white instead of darkness. There was no sign of tranquillity. It appeared to be the blank page following the final phrase of a very lengthy book.After catching her breath, Tatiana remarked, "Mira, it's not an ending." The momentary relapse she experienced throughout the run was gone. "It has been deleted.""What's the difference?" Mira said in a flat voice. She sounded worn out, not angry. "Every ending has happened to us. Loud, quiet, heroic, tragic. All of them circled back to the beginning. The only one we haven't tried is this one. No start. She pointed to the white space. "Simply stop."Tatiana begged, "You'd stop you," as she stepped onto the hopscotch court. Under her foot, the square with the number 121 flashed, unleashing a puff of

The demolished playground remained silent. Jagged shadows were cast by the half-eaten moon. Alexander's face, so near to hers, was a monochromatic world of difficult decisions and more difficult love. He wasn't requesting authorisation. It was an intervention. He gave her a kiss. The night air was cold against his warm lips. It was not a tender kiss. It was an intentional overwriting, a claiming. It was a direct connection between his will and their shared history, the union of the architect and the lover. He also held it. After a second, three, or ten seconds, he didn't back off. He kept the contact going while holding her face in his hands. Still in shock from the dramatic re-aging, Tatiana's intellect attempted to object before giving up. It was Alexander. This was his approach. He employed pressure, concentration, and an unyielding determination when words failed and actions stalled. Something started to happen to the time around them as the kiss went on. The playground's fr

The sand nursery was an absolute haven of silence. The air smelt of innocence and was warm and peaceful. With her heart like a furious bird stuck in the cage of her ribs, Tatiana knelt next to the cot. Beyond the courageous seven-year-old, the rebellious teen, and the exhausted queen, Mira was stripped back even more than before. That was the beginning. The empty canvas. However, a slate was intended for writing. With shaking hands, Tatiana reached into the cot. As tenderly as she had done on the first day, in a hospital room that now seemed like a myth from someone else's life, she slid them under the sleeping baby and lifted her. The infant was warm and full of promise. She simply made a tiny sucking noise while she slept and sank farther down Tatiana's neck without waking. The sand-nursery started to transform as soon as the child was completely in her arms. As the sand walls hardened, they became a gentle, buttery yellow. A window opened, revealing a night filled with stars. B