Her mother. Standing by the lemonade stand, whole and healthy, wearing the blue sweater she’d loved before the sickness. She was laughing, one hand reaching out.
On the other side, the world was the same—but different. The same booths, the same Ferris wheel rising against the dusk. But the people… they moved slowly, smiling at her like old friends she’d never met. A woman in a feathered hat nodded. A boy with a balloon tipped his cap. turnstile entrance
Clara fed a quarter into the slot. The metal groaned, then clicked. She pressed her hip against the bar and pushed. Her mother
Clara pushed harder. The fairgrounds stretched like taffy. A carousel’s music drifted, slowed, then stopped entirely. The lights began to flicker one by one. Her mother’s image rippled, like a reflection in a pond someone had dropped a stone into. On the other side, the world was the same—but different