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The smoke never rose straight. It twisted, knotted, and for a second—just a second—you would see a different version of yourself in the haze. The one who spoke. The one who left. The one who stayed.

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.

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.