She disappeared last spring. No note. No ashes. Just a single rabbit carved from juniper wood left on the counter, holding a tiny mirror.

She operated out of a basement bookstore in the old district, where the stairs groaned like they remembered the war. The sign on the door said Restorations , but no one ever brought her a painting or a clock. They brought her regrets.

Maya Fet was not a person you found; she was a person who found you.

When you look into it, you don't see yourself. You see the person you were supposed to be. And for a moment, you believe you still have time.