The silence in the café after Lyra left was a physical presence, thick and heavy with the weight of impossible truths. Her words echoed in the hollowed-out chambers of my mind: Black hole. Consumption. Ivy. The name alone was a key, unlocking a deep, maternal ache I hadn't known I possessed, paired with a terror so profound it felt like my soul was freezing.
I sat there until my tea was ice-cold and the barista started giving me concerned looks. My body moved on autopilot, carrying me out into the afternoon light that now felt falsely bright and mocking. The world looked the same—the same cars, the same people, the same city—but it was all a lie. Underneath the familiar surface, reality had cracked open, revealing a chasm of doppelgangers and divergent futures.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I flinched, my heart leaping into my throat. I pulled it out with trembling fingers. The screen glowed with a single name: Crosby.
