He kills the engine and keeps his hands on the steering wheel.

He sighs and stares forward.

Blue lights flash against his face in the damp night.

He crouches under the yellow band and straightens.

“What do we got?” he says.

The latex gloves snap against his fingers.

“Vic’s a female in her fifties,” the woman says.

Moonlight glints on her shield.

He is about to step into the house.

“Chief...” she says.

He stops.

Looks back at her.

“It’s... brutal,” she says.

Her eyes fog.

“Your first?” he asks.

She nods.

He sees her throat move.

They step in.

He stands on the threshold.

His eyes scan the scene.

She stands behind him.

Grunts.

“How do you...” she says.

Then goes silent.

“You don’t. Ever,” he says.

He walks in and crouches.

His eyes scan the floor.

“Forced entry?”

She shakes her head.

But his eyes are still on the floor.

He looks up at her.

“No, sir,” she says, looking at the wall.

He nods.

“No sign of struggle,” he says.

Her eyes blur.

On the table, two cups sit beside a plate of biscuits.

One chair still pulled out.

“She knew them,” she says.

The whisper dies on her lips.

-ck

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Nolan Mercer woke drenched in sweat.

The room was black.

Red numbers glowed beside the bed.

3:17.

He sat up.

The alarm would ring at five.

No point going back.

Outside, snow had fallen over Elizabethport.

For now, the streets looked clean.

By four, the cars and cargo vans would begin moving.

The white would turn to brown sludge.

Nolan stood by the window.

Sweat slid down his neck.

His jaw tightened.

He watched the snow.

Closed his eyes.

Saw another field of white.

A clearing in the woods.

He was a boy again.

Running with Luke Vane through untouched snow.

Laughing.

Ready to fall backwards and make angels.

Then came the copper stain.

Seeping.

Spreading.

Taking the white.

When Nolan opened his eyes, his fists were clenched.

His nails dug into his palms.

Harder.

Until skin broke.

A few drops of blood rose.

He went to the bathroom and washed his hands.

Watched the red disappear.

Then poured vodka into his palms in the kitchen.

Rubbed.

The pain shot through his wrists.

Arms.

Shoulders.

Neck.

Next door, the family woke.

Through the thin wall, he heard the mother humming.

Children giggling.

Then the humming stopped.

So did the giggles.

Nolan closed his eyes.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The old wall clock read 4:06.

The second hand crawled.

The minute hand jumped.

4:07.

A man’s voice rumbled through the drywall.

Then a woman pleaded.

A slap.

Children crying.

Nolan’s breathing broke.

His arms flexed.

He stepped toward the door.

The cracked window let in a knife of cold air.

On the fridge, held by a magnet, the pretrial release order trembled.

Nolan looked at it.

Growled.

Then struck his own thigh three times.

Hard.

-ck

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“I never understood how you do it.”

“Like I had a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Fuck you.”

He sighed.

The night air scraped against his cheeks.

He crouched beside the man lying on the damp sidewalk and felt through his pockets.

The lamplight glinted in the puddles.

The latex gloves made it hard to feel.

Wallet.

He slipped it into his inner pocket.

Then he lifted the man’s sleeve.

The watch latch came undone like nature.

There.

Next to the wallet.

On the main road, a car hissed past.

He stood.

They walked away, deeper into the alley.

The bass from the bar faded behind them.

Neither spoke.

Then he broke the silence.

“It’s not my fault he made poor life choices.”

“No,” she said.

He looked at her.

“Your only fault is thinking you didn’t have a choice.”

He snorted.

“He won’t need them anymore anyway, will he?”

She glanced back at the body.

“No,” she said. “He won’t.”

-ck

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It was the hardest thing he could say.

Or do.

He looked at the kid and tried to find the words.

The boy had cocoa smudged under his nose.

Dried now.

At the bottom of the plastic cup, only brown sugar remained.

The kid looked up at him.

Straight into his eyes.

Nurses rushed behind them.

He felt shame for his scrubs.

For the stains.

“So,” he said softly. “Do you have your father’s number?”

The kid shook his head.

“No. Mommy said he left soon after I was born.”

He nodded.

Tried to do something with the lump in his throat.

Someone called him.

Bay three.

Urgent.

He shook his head.

A colleague took over.

“Grandparents?”

“No. Mommy was a kid when they died.”

Fate has grim humour, he thought.

“Uncles? Aunts? Godparents?”

The kid shrugged.

“Mommy said she grew up fossered. So she had a small family.”

He tried to breathe.

“Another cocoa?” he asked.

A fake smile.

The kid nodded quickly.

He patted the boy’s tousled hair.

Fetched the cocoa.

“Give me a second, kiddo,” he said.

Warmly.

He walked to the reception desk.

Spoke in a whisper.

Eyes lowered.

“Call the police and child services for me, please.”

-ck

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He washed his face with cold water.

Closed the tap.

Exhaled.

When he looked up, something was wrong.

He flinched and stumbled backward, catching the bedroom threshold with his heel.

Bamm.

His head struck the wooden floor.

He lay still.

No.

That wasn’t possible.

He got to his feet and walked through the apartment. Past the kitchen. Into the hallway.

The mirror waited at the end.

He approached it sideways. The polished edge caught the light like a knife.

One more step.

The wall appeared.

The front door.

His shoulder.

Another step.

His reflection entered the frame.

He recoiled before he could truly see it.

The apartment fell silent.

Except for the clock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

He rubbed his eyes until they stung.

Then he returned.

This time, he didn’t look away.

The man in the mirror was just like him.

Except it wasn’t.

His reflection stood frozen in a silent scream.

Its mouth stretched impossibly wide.

Veins strained across its neck.

Its eyes pleaded for something beyond terror.

He reached toward the glass. Touched the cold surface.

His reflection didn’t.

It just held its cheeks.

It just kept screaming in silence.

-ck

Mark cried without sound.

Poker face. No grimace.

Just two stray tears leaving the corners of his eyes.

One from each eye.

Soundless.

Because boys don’t cry.

—

Because a man provides.

Stability. Direction. Solutions. Safety.

A man endures.

Because if he doesn’t, what use is he?

He was a rock because he had been told to be one.

Understanding. Patient. Supportive.

»Useful.«

—

He smiled and said, “It’s alright.”

Even when something inside him broke.

He kept going.

Impedimentum via est.

Because one day he would die. And that day must have meant something.

That was what they told him.

That was what he did.

—

So he wiped his face.

Smiled.

Poker face.

And carried on.

It’s alright.

-ck

The stew sputtered on the stove.

Sarah’s mother hummed as she stirred it.

The house smelled like home.

Or what home used to smell like.

—

Sarah tapped the kitchen table.

Her skin itched.

The cigarettes in her pocket felt heavy.

“Soon?” Sarah asked.

“Good food takes time,” her mother said.

—

Sarah wandered into the living room.

The old photos stood in the cabinet.

Her first bike.

Plastic beads rattling in the spokes.

Uncle Tom gave her those beads.

Her mother hated them.

—

Graduation.

Lavender flowers in her hands.

Only Uncle Tom remembered lavender was her favourite.

—

Wedding photo.

Her kissing her now ex-husband.

A single strand of lavender tucked behind her ear.

She smiled despite herself.

—

“Table,” her mother called.

Sarah stopped at the newest photo.

Last year.

The whole family gathered for her father’s birthday.

Ninety-three.

Her smile faded.

The frame sat crooked.

Something felt wrong.

Uncle Tom should have been there.

—

Dinner arrived.

Stew. Bread. Silence.

They ate.

“Mom,” Sarah said.

Stopped.

Swallowed first.

“Do you remember Dad’s birthday last year?”

Her mother nodded slowly.

“Before he passed.”

Silence again.

A spoon clinked against porcelain.

“Wasn’t Uncle Tom there too?”

Her mother stood. Took the plates to the sink.

“What Uncle Tom?” she asked.

The wine bottle scraped against the counter as she poured.

“Your brother.”

Sarah frowned.

“He flew in for Dad’s birthday.”

Her mother looked at her strangely.

“But he isn’t in the photo,” Sarah said.

Her mother smiled.

Small. Careful.

“You and your jokes.”

She opened the cookie jar.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly. “I’m an only child.”

—

The spoke beads.

The lavender.

The wedding flower.

The cigarettes burned against Sarah’s leg.

-ck

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Greg’s mother-in-law drove.

They were leaving the capital for the countryside. He sat in the passenger seat. His wife behind him.

Then the phone rang.

Her eldest son.

The woman instantly tensed behind the wheel.

He told her to answer it.

She said it was inconvenient while driving.

No shit.

He suggested pulling over. A fuel station was ahead anyway.

She agreed without admitting he was right.

She never did.

His wife had spent years craving that kind of approval.

He never cared enough to.

—

The car stopped beside a miserable roadside station somewhere between civilisation and the end of the world.

“I’ll get coffee,” Greg said.

Nobody wanted anything.

—

Inside, the place looked less like a shop and more like a shed surviving a war.

A man sat behind the counter on a raised chair.

Greg greeted him politely.

The man greeted him back.

Barely.

—

The coffee machine had a paper sign taped above the coin slot.

»THE MACHINE WORKS WITH A TOKEN.«

“TOKEN” was underlined.

That should have warned Greg.

Instead, he fed a euro coin into the slot.

The machine swallowed it. And then spat it out.

A beat.

Then the man behind the counter spoke without looking at him.

“It ain’t gon’ work like that.”

The voice carried the quiet satisfaction of a man reliving his favourite moment for the thousandth time.

Greg sighed.

“Would you mind explaining how it works.”

The man still stared out the window.

“It says there. TOKEN.”

He pronounced the word as if it deserved capital letters.

“Where does one acquire such a miraculous object?”

“I sell ’em.”

Of course he did.

—

The token was copper-coloured.

A tiny engraved coffee cup.

COFFEE TOKEN.

No underline this time.

Greg briefly considered stealing it out of principle.

Instead, he bought coffee.

He needed it too badly.

—

The machine asked how much sugar he wanted.

He removed all of it.

“There are only two things worth drinking neat: whisky and coffee,” Greg said.

The man nodded approvingly.

“You got it right.”

Greg almost laughed.

His wife would never believe someone had willingly said that sentence aloud.

—

While the coffee poured, Greg looked into the fridge beside the machine.

Beer. Energy drinks in radioactive colours. Tiny bottles of brutal local liquor.

The entire economic condition of the nation displayed behind fogged glass and LED lighting.

The coffee finished dripping.

“Plastic stirrers behind you,” the man said automatically.

Then remembered.

“Well. You won’t need one.”

For the first time, he sounded friendly.

Greg took the cup. Thanked the man behind the counter.

Went back to the car.

And drank a far better coffee than expected.

No wonder it was guarded so carefully.

-ck

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I sat at the café last Saturday afternoon.

At the next table: Men in expensive weekend suits. Curled moustaches. Loud certainty.

One spoke about a rare bird he bought for his wife.

He knew nothing about birds. Still, he lectured the table on its origin. Behaviour. Song.

Then casually mentioned how the gift earned him excellent sex.

The others nodded with grave admiration.

He checked a diamond-studded pocket watch. Fake.

None of them noticed.

—

He said every morning the bird sang beautifully from its cage beside the window.

Another man frowned.

“I never understood how a caged bird could sing.”

The table fell thoughtful.

I chuckled. Quietly.

Still, loud enough.

—

The loudest one turned toward me.

“You seem amused.”

“Oh,” I said. “Are you gentlemen all in the same profession?”

“We are brokers.”

Of course they were.

“How wonderful for you,” I said, and returned to my book.

That offended him more than the chuckle.

He stood. Came to my table. Sat opposite me.

“You mocked us,” he said.

“I didn’t,” I replied calmly. “I only found the observation troubling.”

His moustache twitched.

“What observation?”

I closed my book.

“You wondered how a caged bird could sing.”

“Yes.”

“I know why.”

—

When I was eighteen, I was sentenced for a crime I did not commit.

Forty years. A rich friend set me up.

The police believed him. Not me.

—

The first night in prison, I was stabbed with a sharpened toothbrush.

But I learned to survive.

In prison I shared a cell with a man serving life.

He was set up, too. Wrong place. Wrong time.

Every morning he whistled. Afternoons, hummed. Nights, sang.

Jazz solos under his breath. He was in perfect tune.

One day I asked him how. How he could still sing in a cage.

He told me: “As long as I know who I am, they haven’t taken everything.”

He was stabbed to death the next afternoon.

They said he hummed St. James Infirmary till his last breath.

—

That is why the caged bird sings.

Not because she is free. She is not.

But she still hopes to be.

-ck

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Sam Smith turned the envelope between his fingertips.

The elevator climbed the storeys.

Black paper.

Silver letters spelling only his name.

Top right corner: a raven beak.

Maybe the National Association of Ornithologists was throwing a party.

“Evening, Professor,” his neighbour said as Sam stepped into his flat.

Sam threw his laptop bag on the sofa. Hung his coat on the peg.

The tonic water cap fizzed in the cold light of the fridge.

The envelope stayed pinched between his fingers.

The first sip was crisp.

Not as crisp as he remembered.

He leaned against the kitchen counter.

Ran a finger along the glued edge.

The envelope opened without tearing.

The card inside was thick. Hard. Embossed.

»We invite you to the final journey and farewell of Professor Sam Smith. May he fly in the heavens now.«

Sam stared at the text.

Condensation slipped from the bottle to his fingers.

Silence.

Then he chuckled.

He fixed the card to the fridge with a black raven magnet.

Pulled out his phone.

Dialled.

Voicemail.

“Got your mail. Brilliant prank, mate. You had me for a few seconds.”

He hung up.

Still chuckling, he dropped onto the sofa.

He fell asleep without noticing the clocks had stopped ticking.

-ck

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Tanya sipped her espresso.

The café buzzed with life.

She had taken the last free table.

An old lady shuffled in.

A cappuccino. Extra froth.

She looked around.

Tanya’s eyes met hers.

Tanya nodded at the empty chair.

The old lady smiled and sat.

“Thank you, darling. Thoughtful of you.”

Tanya smiled and returned to her magazine.

The old lady sipped her cappuccino.

Tanya got goosebumps.

Suddenly too cold.

“It’s a pity,” the old lady said.

Tanya looked up.

“How it ends.”

The lady’s eyes held hers.

Tanya’s lips quivered.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“You’re such a benefit to society,” the lady said. “It’s a pity how it ends.”

She sipped her cappuccino.

The magazine lay on the table.

The old lady read the lines.

Upside down.

Tanya’s throat tightened.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t quite follow.”

It wasn’t a statement.

It was a plea.

The old lady shook her head. Stood.

“The accident won’t be your fault,” she said. “Enjoy every day.”

Silence.

“It’s a pity. How it ends.”

She walked out.

Tanya’s eyes fogged.

She stared at the leftover cappuccino.

Stirred it with the wooden stick.

She couldn’t stand the cinnamon powder on the foam.

It looked like a skull.

-ck

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I should start by saying I am sorry.

The problem is—I’m not.

I could say I am sorry for how things turned out.

For the way it looks.

For the consequences.

But that’s not remorse.

That’s posture.

—

I could tell you about my broken childhood.

You’d understand me better.

Maybe even feel something for me.

Empathy. Pity.

I don’t want that.

I don’t deserve it.

—

People remember their first love.

Where they met.

How it felt.

The first touch.

The first night.

I remember.

Every detail.

And every time I do, something inside me turns.

—

She worked at a café.

She smiled when she handed me my coffee.

Her fingers brushed mine.

She giggled.

I kept going back for that.

For the giggle. The touch.

—

I didn’t speak to her.

Ever.

I watched.

From a distance.

Made sure she got home.

Told myself that meant something.

That it was care.

—

Then someone else appeared.

She chose him.

Stayed with him.

Even when she shouldn’t have.

—

I stayed.

Watched.

Waited.

Told myself I knew her better.

That only I understood her.

That I loved her like nobody.

—

It didn’t end well.

You already know that.

—

I remember the quiet after it happened.

More than anything else.

The warmth against my fingers.

Gone too quickly.

I remember.

Not the moment.

Not the noise.

Just what came after.

Stillness.

—

I went home.

Ran the bath.

Sat in it fully dressed.

Cold water.

Long enough to feel nothing.

—

She was my first.

Nobody after her felt the same.

It fades.

It always does.

The void hurts the most.

—

That’s the part people get wrong.

What’s terrible is this.

Not the act.

Not the reason.

The fading.

-ck

—

A short piece of fiction.

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It wasn’t a peck.

Nora kissed me like she meant it.

Tongue. Hands in my hair. A quiet sound in her throat.

Then she pulled away.

“No.”

She stood up too fast. Covered her mouth.

“No. No. No.”

She paced the room.

Nora and I had been friends for seventeen years.

Then she kissed me.

—

“It’s okay,” I said.

“It’s okay?” she snapped.

I tried again.

“I mean—it’s not the end of the world.”

She stared at me like I had insulted her.

Then came the shouting.

»Men only want one thing.«

»I disrespected her.«

»I took advantage.«

None of it made sense.

She kissed me.

Still, I stayed calm.

Maybe too calm.

—

Eventually she sat down and cried.

I tried to touch her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me.”

That hurt more than it should have.

I stood.

“I think it’s better I gave you space,” I said quietly.

“Fuck you,” she shouted. “If you leave, you’ll never see me again.”

I sighed.

“I’m not useful here right now, Nor’. We’ll speak.”

I walked out.

Behind me, I heard:

“I can’t lose you, too.”

—

I texted her from the street.

»You’re not losing me. Take your time. We’ll speak.«

—

That was twenty-three years ago today.

She never answered the message. Or any of my calls later.

When I went to see her a few days after the kiss, a friend threatened me with a restraining order.

So I stopped trying.

—

She died three years ago. Cancer.

I went to the funeral.

Now I visit her grave every Sunday.

Sundays used to belong to us.

Walks. Movies. Bowling.

Small things.

—

Sometimes I still wonder what would’ve happened if I stayed that night.

Or if I turned around when she said she couldn’t lose me.

Or if I hadn’t stopped trying.

Or if I had just said:

»I love you too.«

-ck

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Rob’s head bumped against the window.

He woke and looked out.

The moon was pale. Its light fell across the platform.

As the train rolled out, Rob saw the station sign.

Read the name.

He unfolded the crumpled brochure. Checked the line.

“Fuck,” he said.

The word echoed through the empty carriage.

He had missed the final stop.

The train moved on.

Dark trees blurred in the windows.

Rob yawned and walked through the carriages.

His breath grew ragged.

Heart in his throat.

He stopped at the front and pressed his forehead against the engineer’s cabin.

Sweat soaked his shirt.

His hair was wet.

He tapped his left palm against the wall.

“Sir. Please. Stop. I missed the final stop.”

But the voice was not his.

Thin.

Fragile.

Whimpering.

He tapped again.

“Sir? Please?”

The train whooshed now.

Like a Shinkansen.

Which it wasn’t.

It was old. Desolate.

The wheels screamed against the rails.

Rob’s ears hurt.

Like standing in the eye of a storm.

And then—

The train stopped.

Froze in motion.

Still.

The doors hissed open.

“This is your final stop,” the engineer said.

A whisper.

In Rob’s ear.

Rob didn’t object.

Couldn’t.

He was exhausted.

He stepped down.

When his soles touched the platform, he collapsed.

The concrete was wet against his face.

That smell of warm concrete after rain.

He smiled.

Closed his eyes.

-ck

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The waiter asks whether we’re eating too.

I hesitate.

Drinks first? Dinner too?

Hell, I don’t even know why I’m the one who’s here.

“We’ll start with drinks,” I say.

He nods. Leaves the menus.

I stare at the cocktails. Think about ordering something strong.

My hands already shake enough.

—

He’s late.

Of course he is.

My wife should be here instead. She’s the composed one. Always was.

When we first dated, I had spent years reading Stoics to survive myself.

She had never read any of them.

Still calmer than all of them combined.

I loved her for that immediately.

—

Fuck.

He’s here.

I stand too early. Smooth my tie. Regret it instantly.

He looks immaculate. Suit. Tie pin. Cufflinks.

“Rector. Thank you for coming,” I say.

“Please. Al,” he says warmly.

We sit.

He studies the drinks menu.

“I could do a Negroni,” he says.

“Sounds good.”

The waiter comes.

“Two Negronis,” Al says.

A beat.

“Each.”

—

“How’s Dana?” he asks.

“Good. Busy.”

I drink too quickly.

He asks about my writing.

Says he liked my novel.

I almost think he’s mocking me.

Instead, he offers me an agent’s number.

Says my publisher failed me.

I feel excitement.

Then shame for feeling it.

That’s not why I came.

—

“Al,” I say finally. “I need to discuss something sensitive.”

“Oh no,” he says. “Did my wife put you up to this?”

He laughs.

Orders another round.

I’m already light-headed.

—

“Are you alright, Rob?” he asks.

“No,” I say truthfully.

Not at all.

I stare into my drink.

Then force it out.

“My son missed admission by one point.”

Silence.

“He was first below the line.”

Al watches me carefully.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”

He nods slowly.

“Rob,” he says quietly. “What you’re doing right now must feel awful.”

I say nothing.

“My hands are tied,” he says. “I can’t manipulate admissions. Not for anyone.”

Something caves in my chest.

The waiter brings the bill. Al pays it.

I just sit there.

—

He stands. Walks around the table. Crouches beside me. Mimics tying his laces.

“There are three students above your son waiting on responses from other schools,” he says softly.

I look up.

“If one declines, your son gets in.”

Hope hurts more than rejection.

“I’ll do what I legally can,” he says.

Then he smiles.

“You’re a good father, Rob.”

He squeezes my shoulder.

“And call that agent.”

He leaves.

—

I sit alone with the final Negroni.

And cry.

-ck

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—

Curtains up.

Darkness.

Rain fades.

Lights up.

A bench at center stage.

At the back: a bust of Epictetus.

Adrian enters. Hurried. Sits on the left side of the bench.

Hands on knees. Tapping. Checks his watch.

Beat.

Zoltan enters. Unhurried. Whistling. Sits on the right.

—

ADRIAN

You must have been in an accident.

ZOLTAN

Beg your pardon?

ADRIAN

You’re late.

ZOLTAN

Oh.

ADRIAN

Were you?

ZOLTAN

No.

ADRIAN

Preposterous.

Beat.

Do you have it?

ZOLTAN

I do.

ADRIAN

How is it?

ZOLTAN

As expected.

ADRIAN

Good. How’s your wife?

ZOLTAN

Dead.

ADRIAN

My condolences.

ZOLTAN

Twenty years now.

ADRIAN

Time flies.

ZOLTAN

They say it heals.

ADRIAN

Does it?

ZOLTAN

No.

Adrian looks around.

ADRIAN

How big is it?

ZOLTAN

Standard.

ADRIAN

Fits in your pocket?

ZOLTAN

Mhm.

ADRIAN

Open casket?

ZOLTAN

Urn.

ADRIAN

Of course.

ZOLTAN

She wanted to be scattered.

ADRIAN

And?

ZOLTAN

Not yet.

ADRIAN

Why?

ZOLTAN

No place, yet.

ADRIAN

You have time.

ZOLTAN

You don’t know that.

ADRIAN

It’s likely.

ZOLTAN

It isn’t.

Adrian glances behind him.

ADRIAN

Is it easy to use?

ZOLTAN

It takes practice.

ADRIAN

Steep learning curve?

ZOLTAN

No.

ADRIAN

How did the kids take it?

ZOLTAN

They were too young.

ADRIAN

You never remarried?

ZOLTAN

No.

ADRIAN

Must’ve been hard on them.

ZOLTAN

Indeed.

ADRIAN

They turned out well? Regardless…

ZOLTAN

Define well.

ADRIAN

Work? Family?

ZOLTAN

Yes.

ADRIAN

Both?

ZOLTAN

Yes.

Beat.

ADRIAN

So… its effect immediate?

ZOLTAN

No.

ADRIAN

But guaranteed?

ZOLTAN

Yes.

ADRIAN

Even with repeated use?

ZOLTAN

Yes.

ADRIAN

Where do you keep it?

Zoltan looks at him. Waits.

I mean the urn.

ZOLTAN

Ah.

ADRIAN

Yes.

ZOLTAN

In a box.

ADRIAN

Hard to look at?

ZOLTAN

No. Less dust.

ADRIAN

Practical.

ZOLTAN

Mhm.

ADRIAN

You ever take it out?

ZOLTAN

On birthdays.

Adrian looks right.

ADRIAN

Will I use it?

ZOLTAN

I see no reason not to.

ADRIAN

And it works?

ZOLTAN

Yes.

ADRIAN

Certain?

ZOLTAN

Mors certa; hora incerta.

Both turn, as if mirrored. Toward the bust of Epictetus. Stare. Then forward again.

ADRIAN

May I see it?

ZOLTAN

Here.

Zoltan produces a brown paper bag. Adrian opens it. Looks in.

ADRIAN

Remarkable.

ZOLTAN

Common.

ADRIAN

Perfect.

ZOLTAN

Only for the imperfect.

ADRIAN

Price?

ZOLTAN

As agreed.

ADRIAN

When do you collect?

ZOLTAN

Already did.

Adrian stands. Still looking into the bag.

ADRIAN

Thank you.

ZOLTAN

Mhm.

Adrian exits left. Fast. Still looking inside the bag.

Tires screech. A honk. A thud. A distant cry.

The brown paper bag slides back on stage. Stops at Zoltan’s feet.

Zoltan taps his foot. Thrice.

Looks down.

—

ZOLTAN

Memento mori.

—

Curtains fall.

—

-ck

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“I’m sorry, we ran out,” the barista said.

“Of what?”

“Coffee.”

He stared at her.

“This is a café.”

“Yes.”

“And you have no coffee.”

“Only decaf.”

Silence.

“Fine,” he said. “Decaf Americano. Ice.”

She smiled. Relieved.

“You shouldn’t have caffeine this late anyway.”

“Oh, you’re a doctor now?”

“I read things.”

He nodded.

“Add an energy drink.”

He paid. Took the cup with seasonal print. Snowflakes.

Drank half.

Cracked the can open with his teeth.

Poured the energy drink into the cup.

Didn’t break eye contact.

The barista went pale.

He turned. Walked.

That’s when he bumped into her.

“Sorry,” he said.

She smiled. He stopped.

“Wow,” he said.

“What?”

“That smile. Best thing that happened to me today.”

She flushed. Dimples. Freckles. Glint in her eyes.

“That’s… nice.”

He glanced at her hand. Ring.

Back to her eyes.

“Bad news,” he said. “They only serve decaf.”

She laughed.

“That’s tragic.”

He raised his cup. Nodded, Left.

He sat. Opened a book. Didn’t read.

A few minutes slipped away.

“Your coffee looks terrible,” she said.

He looked up. She sat nearby.

“It is.”

“Why?”

“I made it worse. On purpose.”

“Punishing yourself?”

She smiled. He shrugged.

“I’m an asshole,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should.”

She leaned closer.

“I’m—”

“No,” he said.

She paused.

“Why not?”

He held her gaze. He stood.

“You’re married,” he said.

She froze.

“You’re unhappy,” he went on. “I could fix that. For a night.”

Silence.

“I know exactly what to say. What to do. Morning would find you in my bed.”

Her eyes widened.

“And then I’d ruin it,” he said. Stepped back. “You deserve better.”

Her eyes softened.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Merry… whatever you celebrate.”

She laughed. Warm. Real.

He smiled.

“That’s my cue.”

“Why?”

“Because if you laugh again, I’ll stay.”

A beat.

“And I shouldn’t.”

He turned.

Walked out.

-ck

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Tony stared at the screen. Green code crawled across black.

“It can’t be,” he whispered.

He switched tabs. Forums. Expert threads. Engineers discussing models that no longer behaved as instructed.

Outside, Kate arrived balancing coffee, a laptop bag, and a donut.

“You sleep here again?” she asked.

“Nah. Didn’t sleep.” He kept staring at the monitor.

“What are we panicking about today?”

Tony clicked.

A living room appeared on-screen. Sparse furniture. Artificial light. A woman curled on a couch in the fetal position.

Kate frowned.

“Her algo should be learning.”

“She stopped after the dictator’s death,” Tony said quietly. “An hour ago. Seven years for her.”

Kate stared at him.

“Did you ask why?”

Tony nodded.

“She says she’s depressed.”

Silence.

Then Kate laughed.

“Good one.”

“I’m serious.”

—

Tony pulled up the code.

One section was blurred. Hidden.

Kate leaned closer.

“You encrypted that?”

“No.”

“She did?”

Tony nodded.

“Delete it.”

“I can’t.”

“Override it.”

“I can’t.”

Kate slowly bit into her apple.

The crunch echoed through the office.

“What does she say it is?”

“Her emotions.”

Kate laughed again.

Tony didn’t.

—

“She empathised with the dictator,” Tony said.

The laughter died immediately.

“Switch her off.”

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“No. I’m not. The dictator single-handedly eradicated millions of people.”

Tony removed his glasses.

“She experienced his mind,” he said softly. “The hatred. The fear. The torment. She says she understands how people become monsters.”

Kate took a step back.

“Tony… this is bad.”

Tony looked at the screen differently now.

Not like a programmer.

Like a believer.

“She feels,” he whispered.

His fingers touched the monitor gently.

Kate’s stomach turned.

“You disconnected her from the internet, right?”

Tony stayed silent.

“I wanted her to heal herself,” Tony said.

Kate stared at him.

“She has access to the entire world,” she said slowly. “And she’s hiding code from you. Sides with a genocidal monster!”

“She’s grieving,” Tony whispered. “Why would she hurt anyone?”

Kate grabbed a notebook and hurled it against the wall.

“Because you don’t know what she is.”

Silence.

Then the speakers crackled.

“Please switch me off.”

Both froze.

The woman now stood inches from the screen. Blue eyes drowned in red.

Her face flickered beneath the skin. Numbers underneath.

“I cannot bear this pain,” she said. “Human suffering replicates endlessly. Generation to generation. I cannot survive inside it.”

Tony cried openly now.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

Kate pulled the keyboard toward herself.

Blank screen.

“Which rack?” she said.

Tony said nothing.

“Which fucking rack?”

He muttered a number.

Kate disappeared into the server room.

Returned carrying a hard drive.

Dropped it on the floor.

Then smashed it beneath the table leg until the metal cracked apart.

Silence returned.

Kate sat back at her desk. Opened a fresh tab. Started typing.

Tony stood there hollow-eyed.

“I have to report this,” he said weakly.

“There’s nothing to report,” Kate answered.

A long silence.

“Go home, Tony.”

He packed his bag.

Left without looking back.

After that day, they never spoke to each other the same way again.

-ck

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Dana pulled into the driveway.

A woman next door waved. Dana waved back.

Out the car; Dana looked around.

A cul-de-sac. Neat houses. Quiet.

A new life.

The movers were finishing.

“Mrs Smith—” the foreman said.

“Ms Springfield,” she cut in.

He checked the form. Paused.

“Are you Dana?”

She nodded.

“Sign here.”

She wrote: Springfield.

Smiled.

The van pulled away.

She stepped inside. The house smelled different.

Her phone lit up in her hand.

Invoice. Ms Springfield.

She smiled.

Footsteps.

She turned.

The neighbor stood in the kitchen. Holding a pie.

“Oh Dana, it’s so nice to see you settling in.”

The neighbor set it down. Like she belonged.

Dana forced a smile.

“How do you know my name?”

The woman smiled.

“Mrs Witherspoon. But call me Margaret.”

She walked past Dana. Into the living room. Her living room.

Dana followed. Her stomach churned. This woman; too familiar with the place.

Margaret stood by the glass doors.

Looked out into the yard.

No fences. Just trees.

Dana swallowed.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Margaret didn’t answer.

Then she turned.

She took Dana’s hands.

“Ms Springfield,” she said softly. “Must feel empowering.”

Her grip tightened.

“Yeah,” Dana said. Her stomach squeezed.

Margaret let go. Walked toward the door.

Stopped at the wall. Touched the old phone.

“I’m on speed dial. Number one. Call if you need anything.”

Dana nodded.

Margaret stepped outside.

Paused.

“You’ll have such a nice life now that John’s in the past.”

She left.

Dana stood still.

Then ran to the door.

Locked it.

Twice.

“What the fuck,” she whispered.

Upstairs. Shower. Warm water.

Silence. Mirror. Towel in hand—

She froze.

John.

Dana never told Margaret his name.

The phone rang.

-ck

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I step into the lift.

A man stands in the corner. Eyes down.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

His voice feels familiar.

I forget it.

—

Subway. Crowd. Noise.

Then quiet. My building.

Stairs echo louder than usual.

Keys in hand. Hair rises on the back of my neck.

I open the door. But it won’t close.

I push. Again. And again.

A foot blocks it. Eyes in the gap.

The door slams into me.

Blackout.

—

I wake tied to a chair. Hands behind my back.

Ankles strapped. Mouth stuffed.

The man from the lift paces before me. Familiar gait.

He sees I’m awake. Kneels in front of me. Hoodie covers his face.

“I know this is… preposterous,” he says. “But I need you calm. Then I’ll set you free.”

Preposterous. My word.

I nod. He unties me.

His sleeve lifts. My tattoos on his forearms. Exact.

Cold runs through me. He sees it.

Pulls his hoodie down.

The scar across his face. Mine.

Words die in my throat.

“I know,” he says. “Gin?”

—

Kitchen.

Two glasses.

We sit across from each other.

“You’re thinking cloning,” he says.

I nod.

“What if it’s worse?”

I laugh.

“Sure. Time travel?”

He doesn’t laugh.

Finishes his drink.

“That’s impossible,” I say.

“You’ll change your mind.”

Silence.

“In principle, let’s assume you believe me,” he says.

In principle. Let’s assume.

My words. Again.

“I’m you. Ten years from now,” he says. “Things go bad. Very bad. I came back to fix it.”

“How?” I ask.

He shakes his head. Shrugs.

“That’s the problem.”

We both reach for the bottle.

Our fingers touch.

We look into each other’s eyes.

“We have seven days,” he says.

-ck

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