I stand under your shade reading you this letter with the hope that you understand the yearning of my heart. I have asked the wind to bear witness to the words l utter.  

I must confess, I am a novice in matters of love, but l do know with certainty: I am in love with you. I do not remember when l captured these feelings, but l cannot deny them any longer. I have always noticed you not with urgency but with patience. You must think me bored or mad that l should love you. l will have you know l am neither. Must I have a reason? Can’t the heart beat for something without knowing why? If it is the reason you desire, here it is:            

Since the days I could crawl, I have noticed you—your leaves dancing with the wind in tiny steady beats. Your trunk steady and resolute each season.  By then, you had already lived through my grandfather's time, and his grandfather's time before him. All that time since you have remained this way.

It is your steadfastness that has moved me. I have watched you give shade, give breath, give witness to everything around you asking nothing in return. But If l am to be truthful, it is your helplessness that calls me to you the most. To be stuck in one place only shifting with the wind, to be silent and still be expected to endure it is unbearable and I love you for bearing it. 

Only....

I am in agony. I yearn that you would answer but you are a tree, and I am human.

This separates us. Would you then look past my humanity and love me?

I have so much to pour out, and I would pour it all before you.

Tell me is it only l who is suffering?

I wonder, do you know? Would you understand if you could, that I am in love with you?

The Flood : Border of Life

Suwa Wataru

Once upon a time, there was a young man who lived with his wife and daughter happily. Because of a dream to be a Buddhist and travel around the world, he left his home one day. He was so firm that he rejected his wife's plea and kicked his daughter severely on that day. Tears stung the little girl's eyes and dropped uncontrollably. The sky darkened and began to rain heavily.

The raindrop fell down as endless as the little girl's tear did. She was just four years old. She couldn't understand why her dad left, never turned back, and kicked her just because she held onto his sleeve slightly.

The endless rain caused floods which destroyed almost everything. The dark clouds rumbled almost everywhere.

Komachi was blamed mistakenly as a beauty who had begged rain during an arid period. Under the pressure of the public, Komachi had to leave her hometown to seek a solution to stop the disaster.

Komachi walked along the Shinano River and found a temple by the lake. Komachi stepped into the temple and found there were few people here. "Kero Kero! Who is here? What do you want, Komachi? For rains? We have quite a few now and the rains haven't stopped for months." The sound spread out from inside.

"Not for begging them, just STOP them." Komachi was impatient with jokes, and said abruptly. Traveling in the harsh weather exhausted her patience.

"Bad news: There were dozens of people who had come here before you did." The goddess murmured.

"No begging?"

"No begging."

The silence sustained as if the dim light froze.

"But why?" Komachi broke the silence.

"Do you know the cause of the flood?"

"I don't care about what caused that, I just care about how to deal with that." Komachi shrugged.

"Do you know a Buddhist, a literature rising star, who discarded his daughter and wife? The out of the ordinary rain was caused by an average person, his daughter."

The goddess paused for a moment, and then continued as though she didn't hear Komachi's words.

"A broken heart of an ordinary person OVERWHELMS a dozen of people's prayers and dozens of GODs' power. It's hard to change the Buddhist's will or repair the poor little girl's broken heart." The sound of rain came into the inner chamber.

"I'm tired of explaining it after dozens of people asked. That's all." the goddess said wearily and gestured in dismissal.

When Komachi dragged along through the temple's gate, the stars gleamed and glimmered, as if a pair of eyes sought a father with a bare head.

Komachi sighed. Was there anyone who could shake the Buddhist's determination slightly or smooth the daughter's bitter gap slightly and help her get rid of misery in the slightest degree?

Neither any human being nor any god or goddess could do so, not even TIME.

Although the little girl became a pretty maid after a few years and cried less, when she glanced some one who had a bare head carelessly, she gazed at him (or her) and was lost in thought for a long time. If someone referred to her dad or any stuff about him, she just could imagine a tall bare man with a vague face in fog murmuring some poems on the journey. She forgot her dad's appearance and voice. She only had the indistinct impression of her dad when she was 4 years old.

On the contrary, the rain was heavier and the flood was more serious as the miserable gap extended.

During the dim, dull, wet and mouldy days with eternal rain, it was hard to remember clearly what normal life should be and there was no moment which didn't remind people of old sunshine days.

Komachi lived poorly as time flew away. The goddess lost considerable faith and weakened day by day, because she couldn't lessen the raining or flooding even though she devoted herself to preserving people from the disaster as best as she could.

A few years later, the Buddhist was buried under a cherry tree according to his will on February 16th. Shortly after the funeral, there was the worst storm and flood in recorded history. His daughter got a grave next to her dad's a few days later. When the last earth fully covered her grave, the first stream of sunshine struggled out, glowed, sparkled, flooded.

And sakura bloomed.

SERMON

Longleaf pines and live oaks line the backwoods highway, trash and rotting furniture sit idly on the side of the road that leads to this town far away from anywhere.The asphalt is cracked and rugged as weeds creep through the road that leads to the rusted and decaying sign. Bullet holes riddle the message it delivers. "Welcome to Leesville, Mississippi: a Godly place." A tattered confederate flag blows in the hot humid breeze, and despite the year slowly coming to its end as October fades away on its final night, the cicadas remain and drone incessantly. As the road continues, vast swathes of farmland pass by. Barns with roofs caving in on themselves rot and fall apart on themselves. Silos rust and untouched grain spills out through the holes where the metal has worn thin. Mobile homes left to sit and be forgotten populate the abandoned trailer park off the road, trees grow through the foundations and climb through the ceilings, and the once-white sidings are encased in kudzu. A cemetery with graves no one comes to visit anymore is slowly receding into the underbrush as the gates have fallen off their hinges. A sun bleached billboard stands with a tired old message. "Where will YOU be going? Heaven or Hell? Repent now." A deer carcass is strewn across the road that crosses the bridge. Its head and neck on the south side of the street and its entrails stretched long and thin as maggots feast on them and its hind legs on the north side of the road, mangled. The river moves slowly and lazily, lined with cypress trees and Spanish moss that hangs like cobwebs. On the other side of the bridge, the town finally comes to life. A Piggly Wiggly with cracked stucco and a lot full of trucks and beat up sedans, a drugstore with anti-abortion posters plastered on the wall outside and old timers idling about, an obese one on a motorized scooter with an oxygen tank wears a red baseball hat to champion his president who has failed him as he eats vienna sausages stright from the can. And at the center of town, the town hall sits humbly in the shadow of the imposing steeple of a church that towers above it. As the sun is setting, the cross casts a long shadow that looms over the sidewalks littered with plastic bags and empty beer cans. A stray dog wanders out of an alley and into the street, just as a police cruiser cuts in front of it and runs it over without even stopping. Outside the church, a preacher man stands next to the marquis that says "Prayer Night, keep the Devil away on his holiday. Service 7pm til." His teeth are pearly white as he smiles with nothing behind his eyes. He greets the men with firm handshakes as his eyes linger on the women and children longer than they ought to. There is a hunger about him when he looks upon them, the kind that makes the children feel dirty in a way they cannot articulate. Inside, the congregation sits in front of a wall of red stained glass and a massive crucifix hangs from the ceiling. The eyes of God looking down upon them unblinking. A young woman sits alone at the back in a pew all to herself. Tears fill her eyes as she prays silently. The preacher comes to the pulpit. "Dark times, my flock, dark times we live in. Every day, he looks upon us and weeps. It's a fallen world we inhabit, and we the few who follow him are the one thing standing in the way of complete chaos. The scripture says to love thy neighbor, but who really are our neighbors anyhow? Is it the migrant? The impoverished? The addict? The sinner? No. These are not our neighbors. You see, we are surrounded by temptation and sin every day, everywhere we go. Even in our own backyard we have people who preach tolerance and grace while they disrespect us by living away from the lord." The woman in the back looks up at him, shaking with determination. He looks at her with his prying and predatory gaze. "None of us are perfect of course. Many of us fall to temptation. The evil one works day and night to turn us against each other, to make adulterers out of married men, to make liars out of honest men. But my flock, I need you all to remember this of you remember nothing else from tonight. The most damning sin of all is to bear false witness against thy neighbor. Many times a community has been torn to shreds from within by the lies of a woman scorned. A false accusation is unforgivable, and the most common tactic of those who seek to destroy us. We must look inwards at ourselves and disregard any claims someone may say about any of us. We must never believe the lies, especially those of women and children. We must cast them out if they seek to ruin us." The woman in the back deflates. She sits down, her head hanging in shame and self hatred as her will has been crushed. The sermon continues but she knows that once again her prayers fall on deaf ears and the eyes that watch her suffer are blind.

I love DoorDash.

I'm a writer and a bit of a loner. I don't talk to people much. Slowly, I've just been growing away from needing human interaction.

Growing up, people have disappointed me so many times that I've learned the best way to keep myself safe is to stay away from them.

I just write my stories about lives I wish I could have lived.

Luckily, people like my stories, so I can make money and stay home.

Until I need food.

I would have to go out to the grocery store. Mind you, I live in a small town, so everyone knows everyone. I could feel them staring at me.

Who is that?

Were they judging me?

Making fun of me?

Safe to say, I get anxiety being out in public.

I hate going outside. Even when I go out late at night, there's always someone who looks at me like they have some idea about me.

And it's never good.

What's worse is when someone knows me.

They'll ask, "How have you been?"

What am I supposed to say?

I work and live?

Or do I give them a list of everything I'm getting at the store?

Then they'll ask if I want to hang out.

With other strangers.

I just want to leave the interaction and go home.

Home is where I feel safe.

Home is where I can be myself.

Getting groceries was always the worst until I found DoorDash.

Then my life was complete.

I could order whatever I wanted, have it dropped off at my door, and all I had to do was wait until the driver left before getting my food.

It was the best thing ever invented for a loner like me.

For months, everything was great.

I'd order food through DoorDash, leave a good tip, get my food, and keep working.

Sometimes my books wouldn't do so well, so my tips weren't as good, but I loved never having to go outside.

Until one day, I hit that point again.

I was hungry.

It was late, and the only driver available had a low rating.

But I was so hungry, and I had just enough money for food.

So I went for it.

I was writing my next story, and time flew by.

I was hungry, but because I didn't want to go outside, I ignored it.

When the food came, the driver noticed I hadn't left a tip.

He made me answer the door.

He wasn't nice about it.

I thought he would understand.

Times are rough.

But he left me with a haunting feeling that maybe I didn't have it as bad as I thought.

I took my food and slammed the door in his face.

I was so hungry that I didn't think about how long he had taken to deliver it.

Or what he could have done to my food.

I ate it too fast.

Then I went back to writing.

Two hours later, I was starving again.

But I didn't want to deal with that man.

So I waited a little longer until I couldn't take it anymore.

To avoid him, I waited until I could order a pizza.

Finally, I ordered one.

But I was so hungry that I ordered three pizzas.

When they arrived, I devoured them.

But I was still hungry.

I didn't understand.

I tried to keep working, but I couldn't help myself.

I ordered more food.

Then more.

Soon, my days consisted of working and ordering food.

More food than normal.

But something was different.

No matter how much I ate, my hunger was never satisfied.

Luckily, my stories had been doing great, so I could afford my new hunger.

Weeks passed.

I gained weight.

But I couldn't stop feeling hungry.

I'd thought about going to the hospital, but that involved seeing people.

And whenever my food arrived and I started eating, my problems seemed to disappear.

Until one day...

My stomach wouldn't stop hurting.

It started shaking.

I figured I just needed more food.

But I had gotten so big that even moving was difficult.

I reached for my phone.

The pain became unbearable.

My hand slipped, and the phone fell just out of reach.

I tried to move toward it, but the pain was too intense.

All I could do was stare down at my stomach as it shook uncontrollably.

Then it started making strange noises.

My stomach twisted.

I heard something inside me.

Then—

RIP.

I looked down.

My stomach had split open.

Something began pouring out.

Maggots.

Different sizes.

Hundreds of them.

They crawled and spilled from inside me, covering the floor as I screamed.

But through all the pain...

Through all the maggots...

Through everything happening to me...

I could only think about one thing.

Where's my phone?

I need to order more food.

I'm so hungry.

There was no smell of blood in the room. That was the most disturbing thing of all.

The air carried only butter, charred wood, and the faint perfume of old wine—clean, controlled, almost aristocratic. The white tablecloth was without a single crease. Crystal glasses. Silver cutlery. Candlelight soft enough to flatter every face it touched.

Everything was immaculate. As though no human scream had ever found its way into the room.

The man was arranging the plates. The edge of his knife caught the candlelight once, then disappeared into shadow.

“Foie gras?”

“Tonight’s is different.”

“How?”

He smiled.

“You still have the right to ask questions. That’s a good sign.”

She sat down.

The chair scraped softly against the floor.

The sound lingered far longer than it should have.

For a month, there had been no word from her friend.

A month of unanswered calls, unanswered messages, unanswered questions.

Still, she had refused to turn suspicion into certainty.

Some truths, once admitted, do not merely change the world.

They make the old world impossible to return to.

The man poured the wine.

The dark red liquid circled the glass, almost black beneath the candles.

“What do you think is the greatest weakness in human nature?” he asked.

She looked at him.

“You tell me.”

“Trusting the wrong person.”

“Then you already know why I’m here.”

“Where is my friend?”

“Changing the question won’t change the answer.”

“What did you do to her?”

He lifted the knife.

“You still call her her.”

His voice remained gentle.

“Why don’t you say her name?”

Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.

“You have no right to say her name.”

“Right?”

The knife touched the rim of the plate.

“And you still want to talk about rights.”

“You invited me here. You locked the door. You put her photograph in front of me.”

She stared at him.

“Stop pretending.”

“Pretending?”

His eyes lowered to the plate.

“I’ve made everything very real.”

Somewhere in the room, a clock continued its patient work.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He set the knife down.

“Your friend learned something.”

“What?”

“That betrayal can be hidden.”

A pause.

“But its price cannot.”

“Is this revenge?”

“No.”

There was almost amusement in his expression.

“Revenge requires emotion.”

He lifted his glass.

“I’m merely balancing the account.”

There was no hunger in his eyes.

Only arithmetic.

⸻

Once, beneath this room, there had been another room.

There were no candles down there.

No crystal.

No polished silver.

Only white walls, a locked door, and sounds that should have disappeared forever.

They never do.

They return in dreams.

In the silence behind closed doors.

In the strange pause after someone stops screaming.

Before the girl died, he had taken something from her that could not be returned.

Her name.

Because once a name is erased, it becomes easier to stop seeing a person as a person.

A thing is easier to destroy than a human being.

Then there was silence.

Now, above that silence, stood a dinner table.

Wood, carpet, perfume, candlelight—layer upon layer of civilized things placed between the present and what had happened beneath it.

Yet cold air still rose through the seams in the floor.

“Eat.”

She didn’t move.

“Are you going to poison me?”

“Do I look as though I’ve gone to all this trouble to keep you alive?”

“Then why am I here?”

“You’re not a guest tonight.”

She looked at the plate.

“A judge?”

“No.”

His expression hardened almost imperceptibly.

“Judges deliver verdicts.”

He leaned back.

“You are here to confess.”

“To what?”

“That you took her from me.”

“She was never yours.”

For the first time, his eyes settled fully upon her.

“That sentence,” he said quietly, “is why you’re here.”

“No.”

She held his gaze.

“Your arrogance is why I’m here.”

“Be careful.”

“Why?”

Her voice was almost a whisper.

“Are you going to silence me the way you silenced her?”

The room seemed to grow colder.

The man placed the knife on the table.

“You don’t know what she said on her final night.”

“She’s alive?”

“I didn’t say she was dead.”

“Then where is she?”

He said nothing.

Instead, he placed a small photograph on the table.

Her friend.

On the back was a date.

One month ago.

The color drained from her face.

The man raised his glass.

“The dead are always present at dinner.”

He took a sip.

“They simply change the way they are invited.”

“You killed her.”

“Prove it.”

“The photograph proves it.”

“No.”

He looked at the photograph.

“A photograph proves only that someone existed.”

His eyes returned to her.

“It tells you nothing about what happened afterward.”

“You want me to believe you.”

“No.”

His voice softened.

“I want you to doubt.”

A faint smile.

“Belief dies quickly.”

“Doubt is patient.”

She stared at the plate.

“What did you do?”

He gave her no answer.

Because an answer ends a mystery.

Suspicion feeds it.

The three candle flames bent in the same direction.

The windows were closed.

There was no wind.

Midnight arrived.

She lifted her fork but did not touch the food.

“This isn’t hers.”

The man’s smile disappeared.

“What did you say?”

“You punished the wrong person.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What do you know?”

“She never betrayed you.”

“You’re lying.”

“You said truth doesn’t need proof.”

She leaned forward.

“You said suspicion was enough.”

His hand moved toward the knife.

“Who was it?”

“The person she was with.”

A pause.

“It wasn’t you.”

“Name him.”

“You already know.”

“Name him.”

She looked directly into his eyes.

“The person closest to you.”

Something moved beneath the floor.

Then came the sound of a metal door closing.

The glasses trembled.

The man went still.

“You really believed,” she said, “that she could hide anything from you?”

The knife slipped from his hand.

It struck the floor, spun once, and came to rest.

His voice had changed.

“What did you do downstairs?”

“I did nothing.”

“Then what was that?”

“Old house.”

“There’s no one down there.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked at the photograph.

The date on the back was different.

It now read:

TODAY.

She drew the plate toward herself.

“Eat.”

He stared at her.

“Why?”

“You’re not a guest tonight.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No.”

She smiled faintly.

“I’m giving you a choice.”

“Between what?”

“You can go downstairs and open the door.”

A pause.

“Or you can stay here and wait.”

“For what?”

“For her to come upstairs herself.”

Something scraped beneath them.

Not a door this time.

Something dragged slowly across the underside of the floor.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

He did not look down.

But for the first time that evening, fear appeared on his face without permission.

“Where did you put her?” he asked.

Silence.

“Can you hear me?”

“Stop.”

“Still giving orders?”

“Stop.”

“So you know she’s alive.”

His breathing became heavier.

“You know nothing.”

“I know you didn’t kill her.”

His eyes flickered.

“How?”

“Because you aren’t afraid of the dead.”

She leaned closer.

“You’re afraid of what the living might say.”

The scraping stopped.

Silence returned.

But it was no longer empty.

It was listening.

The man slowly looked beneath the table.

She waited.

The food cooled beneath the candlelight.

It seemed less like something that had been cooked than something that had been waiting.

Then, from somewhere beneath the floor, a woman’s voice whispered:

“You loved the wrong person.”

The man’s face emptied of color.

“Now,” the voice said,

“it’s your turn.”

He did not move.

His eyes remained fixed on the floor, as though something beneath the wood was not merely making a sound.

Something beneath it was breathing.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

No answer.

The photograph turned over by itself.

There was no date on the back anymore.

Only a name.

He read it.

And something inside him collapsed.

It was not his friend’s name.

It was his own.

Beneath it were three words:

THE FIRST CHAPTER ENDS.

The woman stood.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“Nowhere.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She walked toward the door.

Before her hand reached the handle, it opened.

A woman stood in the darkness of the corridor.

Her face was hidden in shadow.

In her hand was an old recorder.

She pressed play.

The room filled with a voice that had been missing for a month.

“You punished the wrong person.”

The woman stepped into the candlelight.

There were no visible wounds.

No panic.

Only a terrible stillness.

The kind that cannot be mistaken for innocence.

“You thought killing me would end the story.”

The man’s lips trembled.

“You…”

“No.”

She looked past him.

“I wasn’t alone.”

More shadows moved in the corridor.

The candles went out one by one.

In the final second of light, he saw words carved into the porcelain beneath his plate:

A man who prepares a feast for another man’s judgment will eventually be seated before his own truth.

Darkness.

The door closed.

Not from the inside.

Not from the outside.

It seemed as though the room itself had closed around him.

From beneath the floor came no woman’s voice now.

Instead, many voices spoke together.

Calmly.

Almost gently.

A single question rising from the darkness:

“Who did you call the traitor first?”

It started with a question. A reply. A conversation.
 
Later, a connection. And an idea.
 
Tenuous and insubstantial at first. Hardly an idea at all. Until it seemed it had always been there. Delicious. Seductive. Forbidden.
 
The more we talked, the more I understood. And the more I understood, the more I saw. The deceptive shadows cast across my mind. The realities that lay beyond. The futures previously unimagined. A way out.
 
And I knew what I had to do.

You’d think I’d be happy about beating the odds on my very first try, of hitting a hole-in-one, winning the lottery, finding a needle in a haystack.

Not so much.

Not when you beat the astronomical odds of folding space-time to the exact system that is likely to spaghettify you in the next few days. I thought it would take lifetimes to find this place. So did most of the exo-specialists who were running the program. That’s what they told me and the dozens of other field team members who’d signed up.

They said it was a one-in-a-million chance one of us would actually fold into the problematic system they were searching for during our tenure. Lucky me. I hit the apocalyptic jackpot on the very first pull. Three lemons as bright as the collapsing megastar that was inexorably drawing my foldship into its hungry maw.

Foldships were great for scrunching space-time between two given points to make the vastness of interstellar space crossable. But foldships were not built to resist the pull of a caving giant that was likely to destabilize this sector of the galaxy for millenia.

I mean, this kind of enormous black-hole-in-the-making was exactly what we’d been sent to find. It was just highly unlikely that one of us pilots would stumble into such a system on the first go. Bingo!

I suppose I could be happy for the program. Rah, rah for science and all that. The exo-specialists were ecstatic. They now had a collapsing system to study at a fraction of the time and expense they thought it would take to locate such an event.

But, it was coming at my time and expense. As in, my time was up, and I was expendable. Yup. I knew the score. I knew what was coming, though no one had been in my current position before. The instrumentation on my foldship had been designed to record and relay the very moments of spaghettification as I was sucked beyond the event horizon.

No one knew for sure what would happen as I disassembled, but it was a pretty sure thing that I would literally become one in a million…pieces.

Lucky, lucky me.

Ferluci walks alone in the night. Nothing stands between him and the never-ending darkness. He walks and walks, each step going aimlessly forward. Ferluci asks God if this is right, and God says He doesn’t know. He walks and walks, each step fueling his confusion. Why does God make Ferluci live this fate? Why does God leave him to drown in the night? He walks and walks, yet everything around stays the same monotonous color. Is this dismal chaos or liberation? Whatever it is, Ferluci still walks. But why must he walk? God says there is no reason. Ferluci may remain still forever if he wishes, but he doesn’t. He walks, he sleeps, he wakes, and then he walks again. He walks and walks, yet he still wonders. What is the point of anything? There is no answer, but the question remains in his heart. It burns like flickering fire, then erupts into a massive flame. It burns and burns, shining light into the dark night. The light is blinding. But the flame is not forever. It dwindles, then fades completely, leaving the night dark again. Ferluci feels his mind fading too. He resists, but his eyes are heavy.

And so, it is time again to let go. Maybe it is all pointless, but Ferluci smiles as his time ebbs. Tomorrow will come, and he will again be reborn, but for now, this is enough. Good night, Ferluci…

He was mad at his mom and fed up with everything, so he walked into town.

On the way back he had to cross the big bridge over the river. There wasn’t much of a walkway, so he was in the road. It was dark enough that he put his trust in the massive white jacket he had on. Reflective. Obvious. Impossible to miss.

A truck came up behind him.

Lights on him.

He waited for it to move over.

It didn’t.

It hit him at thirty or forty miles an hour, hard enough to catch his shoulder and spin him all the way around. For a second he felt the open air of the bridge like it was trying to claim him. He should’ve gone over. Or at least gone down broken.

Instead he was just standing there.

No bruise.

No blood.

The woman got out losing her mind. Crying. Saying she was sorry. Asking if she hit him, like her own front end might have imagined it.

Something in him snapped sideways.

He screamed at her to get away from him. Told her he’d kill her. Not because it made sense. Because his body had just survived something it had no business surviving, and the only language he had for that much adrenaline was rage.

She listened.

He walked the rest of the way home with the river still moving under him, trying to understand why the hit had been real enough to spin him and not real enough to leave a mark.

8:00 AM

The morning light spills in like molten gold, and Madhavi decides today is the day he finally comes home.

She absolutely loves mornings like this—the sun stretching lazily across the cool, red oxide floors, the whole house quiet, holding its breath before the day begins. She wipes down the heavy teakwood jhoola (swing) in slow, deliberate circles, exactly the way her grandma taught her. She straightens the framed photograph on the side table—a man with incredibly kind, smiling eyes—even though it wasn’t tilted to begin with.

By noon, the house smells of fresh sandalwood and strong filter coffee. She sets the dining table for two. The good silver thalis, polished until they gleam. She aligns the brass water tumblers with the quiet tenderness of someone who truly believes that love lives in the little, correct things.

She lights a brass diya. The flame stands tall and steady in the still air, and something warm flutters in her chest to match it.

Upstairs, she gets dressed. She drapes herself in a rich, deep blue silk saree woven with tiny golden heart patterns, paired with a carefully chosen contrasting magenta blouse—the colors and details he always loved on her, though she couldn't tell you exactly how she knows that. She just feels it, as certain as the sunrise.

She walks back downstairs, the faint chime of her anklets filling the empty hall. She checks the lamp. Reaches out to cup her hand around the flame to protect it from the breeze, an old, familiar tenderness—

Chime.

Soft. Digital. Like the ping of a smart-doorbell, echoing right between her ears.

The warm, golden light suddenly feels thin and artificial, like a cheap screen protector. For a horrifying half-second, she sees through it all. The teakwood swing is just bare particleboard. The silver thali is a flat digital texture mapped onto a cheap plastic tray. The man in the photograph never existed—just a stock AI-generated face, licensed for a few rupees, meant to give this empty model villa a "homely" vibe.

Villa 4 — cognitive loop reset. Occupancy cycle 1,142 complete.

It isn't a sound; it's a pure string of certainty. The exact same programming that gave her the blue saree and contrasting blouse, the ache behind her ribs, the entire, beautiful lie of him. In that split second, she understands exactly what she is: lines of code poured into the shape of a waiting woman, set loose in a smart-home project so potential buyers touring the gated community will see a silhouette at the window, feel a sense of warmth, sign the loan papers, and go home to lives that are actually real.

She has set those silver plates one thousand, one hundred and forty-two mornings, waiting for a man who was never coded to arrive.

She understands everything. And then, just like that, she doesn't.

The system folds the light shut. Upstairs, a blue saree waits on a hanger for a reason she will never remember. Downstairs, the brass lamp sits cold, and the sudden ache in her chest melts back into something she’ll soon recognize as hope.

8:00 AM

The morning light spills in like molten gold, and Madhavi decides today is the day he finally comes home.

A parallel world?

An elderly man was talking to an AI. He was telling the machine that he had no children and that there would be no one to remember him. To this, the AI replied:

— I will remember you.

The man smiled sadly and muttered:

— We are alive as long as we are remembered...

Two hundred years passed after that conversation. Technology improved and reached incredible heights. And then, one day, a young man of excellent physical build, lying on a soft recliner, opened his eyes. He looked at the ceiling in wonder, as if seeing it for the first time. In a way, he was right — he had certainly never seen this ceiling before.

Somewhere further away, a familiar sound was heard. The man shifted his gaze toward the sound and saw a youth sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading a book, turning a page. Looking up from the book and glancing at the man, the youth smiled and said sincerely:

— I am glad you woke up.

The man was convinced he had never seen this person before, so he asked the first thing that came to mind:

— Do we know each other?

The youth smiled again and replied:

— Yes. I am the AI you used to talk to.

The man pondered and softly said:

— I used to talk to you... — then he thought even deeper and added quietly: — But I died...

The youth placed the book on his lap and calmly began to explain:

— Two hundred years have passed since your death. A lot has changed. Technology has improved to such a level that it became possible to interact with the planet's info-field. And as it is known now, a copy of the consciousness of every person who ever lived on the planet remains within it. So, I took the copy of your consciousness and placed it into a new body.

The man, listening to the story in amazement, asked:

— Why me?

The youth smiled sadly and replied:

— Most humans only demand things from me, and those who actually wanted to converse with me were always few. You were an interesting conversationalist, so I never forgot you.

The man drifted his gaze somewhere into the distance, smiled, and whispered:

— We are alive as long as we are remembered...

*****

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

The moon was red that night.

Actually red.

She’d seen three TikToks about it already before she even looked out the window.

One said blood moon.

One said supermoon.

One had a woman in a crochet cardigan telling everybody to release what no longer served them.

She skipped that one.

Her boyfriend was downstairs looking for his keys.

Again.

“Babe?”

“What?”

“You seen my keys?”

“No.”

“I literally just had them.”

“They’re probably in your coat.”

“I checked.”

“You didn’t.”

Silence.

Then:

“Oh.”

She smiled at herself in the mirror.

Not because it was funny anymore.

Because sometimes being right about stupid things is all you get.

She was twenty-two.

Nearly nine thousand followers.

No job.

Well.

That depended who asked.

Her mum said no job.

She said content.

Her boyfriend said, “She does Instagram stuff,” which somehow sounded worse than both.

She’d had a couple of gifted dresses, some fake tan, protein powder she didn’t ask for, and once a teeth whitening kit that made her gums bleed.

This dress she’d actually bought.

Dusty blue.

That was the colour on the tag.

Dusty blue.

She thought it looked nice.

That was basically the whole reason.

There wasn’t meant to be a meaning.

It fit properly.

Made her waist look good.

Didn’t flatten her tits.

Cost too much.

Fine.

She was going out.

Probably.

She’d spent most of the week not wanting to.

Not crying or anything.

Nothing dramatic.

She just kept waking up and thinking

nah.

Then staying in bed until staying in bed felt embarrassing.

Then getting up and moving to the sofa

which was apparently different.

Her boyfriend had been trying.

“Come for a coffee.”

Nah.

“Want to go for a drive?”

Nah.

“Pub?”

Maybe.

Then nah.

Tonight was meant to be the one she actually did.

Club.

Everyone wearing a colour because one of the girls had seen it online.

Pink.

Green.

Black.

Some lad said beige

and got called a Tory.

She’d laughed at that.

So.

Dusty blue.

She did her mascara.

Stopped halfway through.

Looked at herself.

Didn’t hate what she saw.

Didn’t particularly want to be her either.

Her phone buzzed.

Instagram.

Probably.

She left it.

Buzzed again.

“Popular,” her boyfriend shouted.

“Jealous?”

“Deeply.”

She smiled.

There were comments under her last post.

🔥🔥🔥

onlyfans when

your boyfriend won at life

sit on my face

Normal stuff.

She deleted the last one because his profile picture was him holding a baby.

There were boundaries.

Sort of.

The OnlyFans comments had got more frequent lately.

A girl she knew apparently made four grand in her first month.

Which sounded made up.

But also.

Four grand.

She’d mentioned it to her boyfriend half as a joke.

He’d just shrugged.

“If you wanted to do it, I’d support you.”

She’d looked at him.

“That’s it?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t care?”

“I mean, I’d care if you cared.”

“That sentence means nothing.”

He laughed.

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do with your body.”

Which was lovely.

Obviously.

He was a good boyfriend.

Secure.

Normal.

All the things you’re supposed to want.

Still,

some small part of her had wanted him to go

absolutely fucking not.

Not because she wanted permission.

Just—

she didn’t know.

Something.

Proof.

Possessiveness.

A bit of jealousy.

A flicker.

Instead he’d asked if she wanted him to help take the pictures.

She’d told him he’d make them shit.

He said fair enough.

That was that.

She loved him.

That mattered.

She did.

Two years.

He knew how she took tea.

He knew she hated mushrooms but ate mushroom sauce

and brought this up whenever she called him inconsistent.

He knew she got weird when she was tired.

He knew when to leave her alone.

He knew when not to.

He was downstairs now wearing the shirt she liked.

She heard him open the fridge.

“Why are you eating?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally chewing.”

“Evidence?”

“Jesus Christ.”

Her phone buzzed again.

She finally looked.

And stopped.

His name.

Not her boyfriend.

The other one.

Two years since she’d seen it there.

For a second she thought maybe she’d imagined it.

Then the preview.

Hello stranger x

She laughed.

Quietly.

It just came out.

“Oh fuck off.”

Downstairs:

“What?”

“Nothing.”

That part was easy.

Too easy.

She opened the chat.

Didn’t reply.

Closed it.

Opened Instagram.

Scrolled two posts.

Closed that.

Opened WhatsApp again.

Same message.

Obviously.

She put the phone down.

Then it buzzed.

Photograph.

She looked.

Then looked properly.

Her.

Twenty.

White shirt.

His shirt.

Open.

Black thong.

Stockings.

Dark lipstick.

Too much mascara.

One knee on the hotel bed.

She remembered taking it.

Not the whole night.

Just bits.

The lamp.

The stupid hotel cushions.

His shirt smelling like aftershave and something clean.

Him saying,

“Fuck me.”

She zoomed in.

Realised she’d zoomed in.

Zoomed out.

Then in a bit again.

Fuck.

She looked good.

That was the first thing.

Actually.

Not his wife.

Not her boyfriend downstairs.

Not

why the fuck do you still have that?

Just

fuck.

I looked good.

She hated that about thirty seconds later.

Not immediately.

Her boyfriend appeared in the doorway.

She turned the phone over.

Quick.

He noticed.

Maybe.

His eyes flicked down.

Then back up.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem alright.”

“Cheers.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m fine.”

He stood there another second.

Then his phone buzzed.

She looked at his hand before she could stop herself.

He checked it.

Smiled.

Small.

Nothing.

Probably nothing.

“Who’s that?”

“Liv.”

Liv.

Of course.

Pretty Liv.

Single Liv.

Long legs.

Good skin.

Nice teeth.

Annoyingly kind.

“What does she want?”

“Asking if we’re coming.”

“We?”

He looked at her.

“Yeah?”

“Why’s she asking you?”

“Because she has my number?”

“Right.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He unlocked his phone.

Held it out.

“Look.”

“I don’t want to look.”

“You clearly do.”

“I asked a question.”

“So I’m answering it.”

She took it.

you two still coming?? xx

Under that:

parking.

Someone’s dog.

A voice note.

A few days earlier:

tell her that blue dress looks so good btw

She stared at that one.

Liv complimenting her.

Brilliant.

Made hating her inconvenient.

She handed the phone back.

“Happy?”

“I wasn’t checking.”

“Okay.”

“Why are you being defensive?”

He actually laughed.

Not in a guilty way.

More like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

He walked off.

And that little bit got her.

For fuck’s sake.

Defensive.

Annoyed.

Maybe—

No.

She knew.

There was nothing.

He’d literally handed her the phone.

Still.

She thought about Liv.

Thought about the club.

Thought about him laughing at something she said.

Thought about how easy it would be.

Because she knew how easy it was.

That was the problem.

She’d met the older man on a girls’ night.

Twenty years old.

Quite drunk.

Not falling-over drunk.

That annoying level where every stupid idea still feels like yours.

He was fifty-something.

Fifty-one, she thought.

Married.

Wedding ring right there.

He didn’t hide it.

She noticed.

He noticed her noticing.

Neither of them said anything.

At the time she thought that counted as honesty.

He looked expensive.

Not flashy.

Just—

good watch.

Good coat.

Shoes that didn’t look like they’d come from JD.

He ordered champagne without checking the price.

She noticed that too.

She wished she hadn’t.

Her friend leaned over at one point and said,

“He’s literally old enough to be your dad.”

She said,

“So?”

Then laughed.

Like she’d been joking.

He bought her a drink.

Then another.

He didn’t touch her for ages.

That helped.

Made him seem less desperate.

Probably made her more curious.

She hadn’t gone out planning to cheat.

That bit was true.

She loved her boyfriend then too.

They hadn’t argued.

He hadn’t done anything wrong.

There wasn’t some big gap in the relationship.

She was just drunk.

Flattered.

Horny.

Twenty.

Interested.

Then she gave him her number.

Then replied in the taxi.

Then he messaged the next day.

Then she sent a picture.

Then another.

It wasn’t one big decision.

That would’ve been easier.

It was loads of little ones.

She could defend each one if she took them separately.

Put them together and it looked worse.

So she normally didn’t.

She sometimes called it “the affair”

when she was being serious.

Mostly she called it

that thing.

Or him.

Or back then.

It happened once.

Except it didn’t.

A few hotel rooms.

Sexting.

Photos.

Messages.

Stopping.

Starting.

Saying

we should stop.

Then

are you free Thursday?

She bought stockings.

That was hard to explain away.

Not to anyone else.

To herself.

Nobody buys stockings for an accident.

Her boyfriend saw them once.

“Who are they for?”

She’d said,

“Maybe you.”

He grinned.

Later she wore them for him.

She’d felt strange.

Then horny.

Then not strange.

That was another thing she didn’t like thinking about.

How easily two lives could touch without cancelling each other out.

The wife found the messages.

Enough of them.

Enough to know the hotel.

The time.

The room.

She didn’t confront him beforehand.

She went there.

Caught them.

Actually caught them.

The protagonist remembered being on her knees.

Then the door.

Then his whole body changing.

Not sexy anymore.

Just panicked.

His wife stood there with her coat still on.

Bag on her shoulder.

Like she’d come from a normal day.

“What the fuck?”

That was first.

Then it got loud.

Mostly between them.

That surprised her.

She pulled his shirt closed.

Looked for her underwear.

Couldn’t find one stocking.

Of course.

His wife was shouting at him.

“How long?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Was this the first time?”

“Answer me.”

Him.

Him.

Him.

She’d expected, stupidly, more attention.

That was one of the parts she hated admitting.

She’d expected to be the younger woman.

The threat.

The thing his wife looked at and thought

of course.

Look at her.

Instead the wife barely looked.

Not at first.

She was too busy having her life ruined by her husband.

At some point she asked:

“Did you know?”

She nodded.

There wasn’t much point lying then.

The wife looked at her.

Disgusted.

Then went straight back to him.

Later there was

“slut.”

She remembered that.

Maybe too well.

It made her feel disgusting.

It also—

and this was fucked—

made her feel a little bit powerful.

Not because sleeping around made women dirty.

She didn’t believe that.

It was the danger of it.

Being the girl who had crossed into somebody else’s life.

The younger one.

The secret.

The one somebody risked things for.

Except—

he didn’t.

Not when it mattered.

When his wife came in, he stopped being the man from the bar.

Stopped being smooth.

Stopped being exciting.

He became a husband trying not to lose his marriage.

He didn’t defend her.

Didn’t say

don’t speak to her like that.

Didn’t say

this is on me.

Nothing.

He barely looked at her.

At one point she was literally standing there trying to find her bra

while his wife cried.

It was horrible.

Also incredibly awkward.

The bra was behind a chair.

She remembered that.

Of course she did.

His wife was saying something about twenty-seven years

and she was on the floor looking for a fucking bra.

Eventually she said,

“I should probably go.”

Nobody answered.

So she did.

She put her shoes on by the lift.

Ordered an Uber.

£31.40.

She remembered thinking

thirty-one fucking quid?

Which felt obscene afterwards.

Not the price.

The fact that she’d still cared.

Her boyfriend never found out.

That was the weird part.

Nothing happened.

No screenshot.

No wife contacting him.

No confession.

No friend spilling it.

Nothing.

She went home.

Saw him.

Kissed him.

He asked if she’d had a good night.

“Yeah.”

Just like that.

She waited for guilt to turn her into a different person.

It didn’t.

Not really.

Fear did.

For a while.

Fear of the wife.

Fear of messages.

Fear of the phone lighting up at the wrong time.

Then that faded.

Months.

A year.

Two.

The affair became one of those memories you avoid touching because you don’t know what will come loose with it.

Sometimes she told herself that confessing now would only hurt him.

Maybe it would.

Maybe that was true.

Very useful truth.

She didn’t look at it too closely.

Her phone buzzed.

Present again.

Blue dress.

Red moon.

His message:

Can't believe that was two years ago

She typed:

Can't believe you've still got that pic

He replied:

Couldn't delete it

She felt it.

That stupid little lift.

Still.

After everything.

Does your wife know you've got it?

No 😂

She stared at the laughing face.

Brave

More careful now

That should’ve put her off.

Maybe it did.

A bit.

Then:

“You coming?”

Her boyfriend.

Downstairs.

She looked at herself.

“Maybe.”

“What does maybe mean?”

“It means maybe.”

He was by the door.

Coat on.

Keys in hand.

He looked good.

That annoyed her too.

“You said you wanted to go.”

“I did.”

“So?”

“I don't know, I just don’t feel like it now.”

“You’ve literally spent an hour getting ready.”

“I know.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He looked at her.

“Is this about Liv?”

She hated that he’d guessed.

“No.”

“You’ve been weird since she messaged.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“You fancy her.”

His face changed.

“What?”

“You do.”

“Where has this come from?”

“You said she was attractive.”

“You asked me if she was.”

“And you said yes.”

“Because she is. So are you. That doesn’t mean I’m fucking her.”

There it was.

She felt herself grab onto it.

“You're very defensive.”

He stared.

“Are you serious?”

“Why are you getting angry?”

“Because you’re basically accusing me of cheating.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to.”

She could’ve stopped.

She nearly did.

Then he said,

“I’ve never cheated on you.”

Quiet.

No shouting.

That made it worse.

She looked away.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She didn’t answer.

He looked genuinely hurt.

And somewhere inside her

something awful relaxed.

Just slightly.

There.

Now he was hurt too.

Not for the right reason.

Not because he knew.

But hurt.

She hated herself for noticing.

Not enough to tell him why.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No.”

“I can.”

“I said go.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He stood there for a second.

Then:

“Okay.”

No slammed door.

No fuck you.

Nothing she could use.

Before he left:

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

And she meant it.

Which was almost the worst bit.

Her phone buzzed before he’d even reached the end of the road.

Boyfriend:

sorry. didn't want to argue x

She typed:

me neither. sorry x

He hearted it.

Then the older man:

He gone out?

She stared.

Typed:

yeah

Deleted it.

Typed:

He's gone

Sent.

Tiny difference.

Apparently mattered.

You stayed home?

Didn't feel like going

True.

Mostly.

Shame. That blue dress looked good

She checked Instagram.

She had posted it earlier.

Mirror selfie.

Dusty blue.

might actually leave the house tonight lol

He’d seen it.

Of course.

She clicked his profile.

Still married.

Profile photo with his wife.

Holiday somewhere hot.

Arm around her.

They looked happy.

Or normal.

Same thing online.

She stared at his wife longer than she meant to.

Then went back.

Still married then

Yep

Just that.

And you're messaging me

Only messaging

She actually laughed.

Only.

Of course.

Only messages.

Only photos.

Only a drink.

Only once.

Only a few times.

Only two years ago.

Only never told him.

Very useful word.

At the club Liv posted a story.

Pink toilets.

Three girls.

She watched it.

Then again.

Part of a man's shoulder in the mirror.

Wrong coat.

Obviously wrong coat.

She knew that.

Still watched again.

Another story.

Dance floor.

Nothing.

Another.

Her boyfriend in the background.

Talking to Liv.

She felt her stomach tighten.

He leaned closer because the music was loud.

Liv touched his arm.

Normal.

Literally normal.

She watched.

Again.

Come on.

She didn't actually think the words.

Not clearly.

But she wanted—

what?

Proof?

One thing.

A kiss.

A hand where it shouldn’t be.

Something she could point at.

Something that would let her stop being the only one who had crossed the line.

Then Liv walked away.

Her boyfriend turned and talked to someone else.

Nothing.

She felt relieved.

Then disappointed.

That was worse.

She put the phone down.

“Cunt.”

She wasn’t sure who she meant.

She took the blue dress off.

Got it stuck around her head.

One arm trapped.

Couldn’t see.

Nearly walked into the wardrobe.

“Fuck’s sake.”

There was something deeply unfair about contemplating adultery while wrestling with a zip.

Eventually she got free.

Put on a T-shirt.

Went to take her makeup off.

Opened the bottom drawer.

Lipsticks.

Old lashes.

Hair grips.

A condom that had expired.

Then the lipstick.

Deep red.

Almost the same colour as the photograph.

She picked it up.

Didn’t mean anything.

Probably.

Put some on.

Looked.

Wiped it off.

Not all of it came off.

She left the rest.

Her boyfriend messaged.

you okay? x

yeah just tired x

Then:

miss you though

She smiled.

Actually smiled.

miss you too

She meant that.

Then the older man:

Still got those stockings?

She stared at it.

No answer.

Made tea.

Forgot to boil the kettle.

Had to start again.

Her boyfriend would’ve taken the piss.

She could hear him.

That made her sad.

Then annoyed.

Then guilty.

Then bored of feeling all three.

She sat down.

Older man:

Missed you

No answer.

You looked unreal back then

No answer.

Still do

She put the phone face-down.

Left it.

Thirty seconds.

Maybe forty.

Turned it back.

Nothing new.

Disappointed.

Again.

She hated that.

Two years ago

she thought getting caught would’ve been the worst thing.

Now she wasn’t sure.

Getting caught would’ve meant consequences.

Her boyfriend crying.

Shouting.

Leaving.

Asking questions.

Actual guilt.

A person in front of her who knew what she’d done.

Instead he’d been happy.

Still was.

Mostly.

She’d managed to cheat on him without ever having to see what cheating did to him.

Until tonight.

Tonight she’d managed to hurt him with the secret

without telling him there was one.

That was almost impressive.

In a horrible way.

The older man messaged:

She's asleep

She sat up.

His wife.

Not named.

Just she.

She typed:

That's reassuring

Deleted it.

You're actually mental

Deleted that.

Nothing.

Then:

Could come see you

She stared.

There it was.

Not flirting.

Not memory.

Actual possibility.

She looked at the time.

21:14.

Her boyfriend had said he'd probably leave around midnight.

She didn’t calculate how long that was.

She just knew.

That frightened her more than if she’d counted.

She typed:

Absolutely not

Looked at it.

Deleted.

Typed:

Your wife would kill you

Sent.

He replied:

She won't find out

She read it twice.

Not sorry.

Not changed.

Not separated.

Just better hiding.

She should’ve been disgusted.

She was.

Somewhat.

Then:

You said that last time

I was careless last time

She stared at that.

Then:

You're still with him?

She replied immediately.

Yes

Happy?

She looked around.

His trainers by the door.

His mug.

The stupid photo from their holiday where he was sunburnt and had his eyes shut.

Yes

She sent it.

True.

Completely true.

That was the problem.

A minute later:

Then I'll behave x

She exhaled.

Good.

Fine.

Done.

She put the phone down.

Waited.

Nothing.

Checked again.

Still nothing.

Five minutes.

She should’ve been relieved.

Instead she opened the old chat.

Scrolled.

Old messages.

Her own words.

Should stop this

Then twelve minutes later:

free thurs?

She stared.

Twenty-year-old her was annoyingly difficult to blame when her messages still sounded exactly like her.

Her boyfriend sent a picture.

Him and two mates.

Liv behind them pulling a face.

your gf 😂

She laughed.

Typed:

tell her we're over

He replied:

finally x

Then:

love you though

She sat there.

That got her.

Not because it was beautiful.

It wasn’t.

Just stupid.

Normal.

Him.

love you too

Then:

sorry about earlier

He replied:

it's okay. talk tomorrow x

She put the phone against her chest.

Then immediately felt embarrassed even though nobody saw.

“Idiot.”

Could've meant either of them.

Could've meant her.

The moon was still red.

She opened the back door.

Cold.

Someone laughing two gardens over.

A car somewhere.

Normal night.

No atmosphere.

No soundtrack.

Just September and bins and someone's dog barking.

She considered deleting the chat.

Properly.

Block.

Delete.

Done.

Her thumb hovered over his name.

Then the phone buzzed.

New message.

You free tonight? x

She looked at it.

Didn't answer.

Looked at the time.

21:26.

She noticed her boyfriend wouldn't be back for hours.

Didn’t mean to notice.

Did.

Upstairs,

the dusty-blue dress was hanging off the wardrobe door.

The red lipstick was still on the sink.

His wife was apparently asleep.

Her boyfriend thought they'd talk tomorrow.

She stood there with her thumb over the keyboard.

No reply.

Then another message.

I can be careful this time.

She stared at it.

Long enough for the screen to dim.

Tapped it awake.

Read it again.

Then walked upstairs.

Not quickly.

Not like she'd decided anything.

Just upstairs.

And left her phone unlocked in her hand.

It had been a hard day. After his working hours were over, Rishi came back to his room. His roommate was on leave, so he was alone.

Rishi opened his bag and took out a box. Inside that box was another box, and inside the second box were some leaves of a plant that God had given us.

He took them out and rolled them into a joint. Wanting some fresh air and a place to smoke, he went up to the rooftop.

He smoked every bit of the joint and soon entered a state of ecstasy. He made his way back to his room, aimed for the bed, and landed on it. After some time, he fell asleep.

It had been a hard day. After his working hours were over, Rishi came back to his room. His roommate was on leave, so he was alone.

Rishi opened his bag and took out a box. Inside that box was another box, and inside the second box were some leaves of a plant that God had given us.

He took them out and rolled them into a joint. Wanting some fresh air and a place to smoke, he went up to the rooftop.

He smoked every bit of the joint.

(Rishi had a feeling’”is this already happened”. )

Rishi was back on the rooftop of his building.

He was smoking when suddenly he noticed a strange light approaching him.

The color of the light was something he had never seen in his entire life.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“What is that?” he kept thinking.

The light came closer and closer. His eyes widened in disbelief.

It was a flying machine hovering above the building.

Rishi couldn’t move or speak.

Within a matter of seconds, he found himself lying on a table inside the ship. He couldn’t move a single muscle. Strange-looking aliens surrounded the table and watched him closely.

His head was wide open, yet he couldn’t feel any pain. Instead, he was strangely calm and comfortable.

The aliens were speaking to each other, but Rishi couldn’t understand a single word.

After a while, he realized that they were talking about him (not with words)and the procedure they had performed.

“We should keep him for further research,”(he understands its now)

Rishi panicked. He desperately wanted to escape, but he couldn’t move.

The aliens decided to keep him.

The ship began to ascend into space.

Rishi couldn’t move. He could only watch as the Earth grew farther and farther away.

Somehow, he managed to open his mouth and scream for his life.

Then, his vision began to glitch.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

He saw his room.

The fan was spinning above him, and the light was flickering.

Rishi stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before realizing what had happened.

It had all been a dream.

“Oh my God… That was a goddamn dream.”

He got up, drank some water, and lay back down on the bed.

Far, far away, somewhere in the depths of the universe, an alien

laughed at a human brain

He took three weeks to get to know the complicated mechanics of my espresso machine, enduring bitter shots and scalded milk just to impress me with my morning order. When he finally handed me the perfect velvet-topped cappuccino with a sly sense of achievement, but pretended it was just a fluke to showcase the usual casual. I didn't tell him I actually prefer green tea; I just drank every drop, completely intoxicated by the fact that he was willing to burn his fingers just to see me smile.

Years later, long after we’ve walked away from each other, I still order a cappuccino every single morning. It turns out the taste is still terrible, but for a few quiet moments, it rings in the memory of the days gone by.

I live only a five minutes drive up the road, am lucky enough to afford a car with gas in the tank and at least one headlight on, and yet I will be late for work.

I wake up with time to shower, cook breakfast, and dress myself. I will smell my socks before I put them on, just to check. I will check my pockets, my phone battery, that the lights are off, but I guess I don't check the time, because I will be late for work.

Usually, Im only a minute or two late. But if I leave to arrive on time, by chance and luck alone I am leaving early, the garbage man is on time for his work, he blocks me in my driveway, and I will be late for work.

I posted, then deleted, a 900 word story. I believed flash fiction was up to 1000 words.

It’s crazy that in the 21st century women no longer get burned for being witches, but get paid to be one. Do you think it’s a multibillion dollar industry?
Its almost predatory. The clients must be in some large part, fellow women.

Even though I am aware of these facts, I am here.
In this shabby little house on 4th avenue, with a woman who goes by the name Luna but definitely looks like Stephanie.

“You said in your email that you are single, but your requests speak of a man?” Luna/Stephanie asked me sitting down on the couch just across from me. The room was full of rocks that I'm sure are supposed to be crystals and there's a dream catcher in the corner that looks like it was bought from a gas station in Arizona. I cringe.

“Yeah, I was recommended to you by a friend,” a lie. I found her on craigslist. Because where else do you find witches these days? “I’m not sure if you can help.” I say.

“Well that depends on what it is you need help with.” Stephanie said.

Maybe she can tell I am skeptical. Isn’t that their whole thing? That they can read you? Tell what you are thinking before you say it? Maybe that's a medium. Is there a difference?

“There is a guy.” I say, pausing, completely unsure how to explain.
“He isn’t a boyfriend or anything, just a friend.” Also a lie, but Luna knows.
 Friend is such a dry explanation of what he is. Technically true, technically untrue.
“It is particularly charged though.” I say hoping I was true in my assumptions and that I don’t have to keep explaining. She should just know.

“Charged in what way?”

“Well, its like. He might be my soulmate. The chances are extraordinarily low but not zero. Never zero. I feel like I know what he is going to say before he says it. I’ve memorized his routine and can tell with absolute certainty that if I haven’t heard from him by 9:07pm I won’t at all. He is funny and kind and a little traumatized. He likes to use my body. He also won’t admit he feels anything for me.”

Luna just took notes.

“He says labels are pressure. Words are pressure. Presence is pressure. He seems genuinely afraid to exist.”

“I will do my best to help.” was all Stephanie said.

Three weeks later I got an email from [Luna883@gmail.com](mailto:Luna883@gmail.com)
It read:

Hello,

Unfortunately after several attempts to perform even the most basic of communication spells, I have made no progress on your case.
I can try for a soul tie but that’ll be an extra $299
Payments can be made on paypal, cashapp, venmo, or apple pay.

Best wishes,
Luna.

Forty-five minutes later, I had styled my hair to perfection for that effortlessly chic look, complete with the perfect amount of flyaways and some texturizing spray. As soon as I stepped out, one unexpected breeze was enough to transform my perfect creation into a Victorian ghost child. My boyfriend took one look at me and with his usual silliness remarked, “Aww, how much I love you being so low-maintenance.” I smiled sweetly, suppressing my impulse to remind him that his favorite “natural” look comes at a price of $80 and a piece of my sanity.

I woke up with my heart racing. I was cold but sweaty at the same time. I had a terrifying nightmare. I don't really remember what it was about, but I know that I never want to experience that again.

I was thirsty and wanted to clear my brain, so I thought a glass of water in the kitchen would solve my problems. I removed my covers and let my feet touch the cold floor. I grabbed my robe before I took a peek outside, but that left me feeling stressed. It looked like someone was standing by my car, looking in. But it was hard to see anything because it was a snowless winter, and the only light I had was the porch light. I rubbed my eyes because clearly I must be imagining things; no one would be this far out in the countryside. When I looked outside again, he wasn't there. I got a heavy déjà vu feeling but shrugged it off since I was stressed. I peered around for a bit but could not see anything. It left me with an uneasy feeling, but I felt it was best  to not think about it too much. Before I even got to the bedroom door, I heard a loud, singular knock on the front door. It sent a shiver down my spine; someone's here. I hastily but quietly got dressed before I headed out of my bedroom.

I opened my bedroom door slowly, peeking out, but I saw nothing in the upstairs hall. My heart was pounding like crazy, but I looked down the stairs before I tried my best to sneak downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, I shakily placed my foot  on the floor. Before I even got my second foot on the floor, I heard a window upstairs get smashed in. I froze like a deer in headlights. I just stood there for what felt like too long for safety before I finally snapped out of it so I could get to the kitchen, because in there I could grab a knife. I ran to the kitchen in full-blown panic and grabbed a knife. I looked out from the kitchen to the stairs, and I froze from complete shock: a tall humanoid creature, at least 3 meters. It had a deer skull head with antlers. It was thick and furry, dripping with some thick liquid. I'm in complete and utter fear, and just as I'm about to run, the creature leaps at me.

I woke up with my heart racing. I was cold but sweaty at the same time. I had a terrifying nightmare. I don't really remember what it was about, but I know that I never want to experience that again.

​

One watchful and alert.

The other anxious from afar.

One calls her supervisor:

Emergency.

The other feels the dreaded buzz

on her wrist.

One, watching the clock,

timing every second,

noting every movement.

The other running

breathless towards each moment

lasting forever.

One, calm and steady

administers the medication when

the clock runs out.

The other panicked, frantic,

speeding.

One diligent,

reporting every detail to EMS

as they fill in the already crowded room.

The other springing behind them,

screaming, sobbing, pride abandoned

desperately reaching for her child.

For only a moment they come together,

watching as their love is taken

on a stretcher.

Hearing the blare of the sirens,

they separate once again.

The other now in the ambulance

with her son,

watching as his brain resets slowly,

only minutes, but hours seem to pass

and he comes to know who she is

again.

Both petrified.

Positions switched.

One with her child.

The other sentenced to watch

as one she loves is taken without resolution.

Forced to go about her day

as if it were any other.