The Bead and the Blade

In the morning, Room 5 was a reef of undisturbed white: rumpled linens, gauzy curtains, the ceiling turning gold and blue as sun filtered up over the horizon. Riley sat on her bed, cross-legged, the covers twisted around her thighs and the small glass bead from Sandra rolled between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. She’d been staring at it so long that the patterns in the blue-and-green swirl had started to resolve into maps. Or maybe scars. Or something else she didn’t have a name for.

A knock at the door, the kind that was more courtesy than request, and then Chloe slipped in, arms full as always. She was dressed in pale yellow and her hair was a chaos of pinned-up curls that made her look a little like a soft-boiled sun. In each hand, a mug: one black as tar, the other milky with honey and cinnamon. She set them on the little table by the window, then stood a moment in the hush, waiting for Riley to look up.

Riley did, but only after she’d clicked the bead into her palm, hiding it. “Thanks,” she said, her voice thin as paper. She didn’t need to ask which mug was for her. Chloe knew.

Chloe moved a little closer, but left space at the edge of the bed before she sat. She set her own mug in her lap, hands wrapped around it for warmth. “How are you holding up?” she asked. Her voice was low, careful.

Riley shrugged, because the right answer was complicated and she didn’t know where to start. “I haven’t broken anything, if that’s what you mean.” She picked up the coffee, sipped it, then set it back down. “Yet.”

Chloe smiled at that, a real one. “I’d be surprised if you did. I’ve never seen you lose it.” She leaned in just a little, eyes catching the movement of Riley’s hand. “What’s that?”

Riley opened her fist, the bead gleaming between her fingers. “It’s… a present. From my mother.” She said the term like it was still new, still fragile.

Chloe’s eyes widened, but she didn’t reach for the bead. “Is it—can I see?”

Riley nodded, and Chloe leaned closer, close enough that Riley could smell the cinnamon from her tea. She held her hand out, palm flat, but Riley just rested the bead in the center for her to look at.

“It’s beautiful,” Chloe whispered. The sun caught the swirl and cast a tiny blue crescent onto Chloe’s palm. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“Me neither,” Riley admitted. She watched Chloe for any sign of judgment, but there was only curiosity there.

Chloe looked up. “Did you get to see her? Yesterday?”

The bead felt heavier in Riley’s hand than a marble should. “Not really,” she said. “The whole thing was behind this screen. Painted with cats. I could hear her voice, but I never actually—” She trailed off, and a hot thread of shame twisted somewhere behind her ribs.

Chloe just nodded, waiting. After a second, Riley kept going, because she knew if she stopped now she’d never start again.

“She wouldn’t let me see her,” she said, voice even. “Not in person. I could talk to her as long as I wanted, but she stayed on the other side of a screen.” She looked at the mug, the bead. “Her voice… didn’t sound how I expected.” She didn’t say what she’d expected, or even if she’d let herself expect anything at all.

Chloe nodded, letting Riley choose her pace.

Riley exhaled. “She said she wanted to see me. That she’s sorry, that it was her fault I never had a real family. That she’s proud of me.” She tried to laugh, but it got stuck halfway and came out sharp. “She doesn’t even know what I do, but she’s proud.”

Chloe reached out, slow enough that Riley could have pulled away if she wanted, and set her hand on Riley’s forearm. “She should be.”

Riley didn’t answer. She turned the bead over and over, the movement a nervous loop. “Do you want to know the worst part?” She didn’t wait for Chloe’s answer. “She said the only thing she ever wanted was to hold me. But she couldn’t.” Her jaw set. “Her hands don’t even work anymore. They’re—” She stopped. “She got eliminated, her season. There’s no way she could have picked me up. She… she’s half-dog, or something like that.”

Chloe’s eyes flickered to the bead. “You said she gave you that?”

Riley nodded. “Said it was all she could give me. She rolled it through the partition.” She could feel the words floating just out of reach, something like I see it too.

They sat with it for a while. Outside, the sunlight kept climbing, inching its way across the carpet until it touched Riley’s bare ankle. She curled her toes, felt the warmth. It made her want to say more.

“She never got to hold me,” Riley said, softer. “She said, after she gave birth, they took me away. Her hands… the way her arms are now, she can’t cradle anything. Myra’s mom drove me to a hospital in Chicago and gave me to a nurse.”

Chloe squeezed Riley’s arm, then let go, giving her the option of space or touch.

Riley didn’t move away. “She gave me the rabbit, too. A lovey. It had my name in it sewn in it.” Her face twitched, not quite a smile. “She said the other women—other Contestants—did it for her, because she couldn’t. The day I was given away, they tied the rabbit to my blanket, so I’d have something when I left. So I’d have my name, the only thing she could give me.” She blinked, and the sun caught her tears before she could look away.

Chloe set her tea down and moved closer, not all at once but enough that her knee pressed against Riley’s. “Do you want to talk about it more?” Her voice was barely there.

Riley nodded, once. “She said she talked to me every night. Before I was born, she told me stories through her belly. That she loved me, even though she knew she’d lose me. That I’d be smart, and strong, and that the world would be better because I was in it.” The next words caught, and Riley had to press her lips together before she could finish. “She said she called me Riley because it meant ‘brave.’ She said she was grateful. That even if she never saw me, she was grateful I got out.”

Chloe’s hand found Riley’s and squeezed tight.

Riley let out a breath. “I never wanted to find her. Not really. I thought, if she existed, it meant she gave up. That I was just a regret, something left over from a bad story.” She shook her head, bitter. “Turns out, she was fighting the whole time. She just couldn’t do anything. Literally couldn’t.”

There was a long pause.

“Is that what hurts?” Chloe asked. “That you couldn’t see her?”

Riley nodded. The tears finally came, quick and hot, sliding down her cheeks to her neck. She didn’t bother wiping them away. “I want to see her,” she said. “I want to see the face that matches the voice. I want to see my mother, not just some fantasy I let myself have.” Her shoulders shook once. “And I want to forgive her. Or maybe tell her she doesn’t need it. But I can’t do that if I never see her.”

Chloe pulled her in, proper now, arms wrapping all the way around Riley’s back. Riley let herself go, let the ache turn liquid, and pressed her face into Chloe’s shoulder. It was the first time she’d let herself cry since the day she’d left Chicago, and it took her by surprise how much it helped.

Chloe held her there, quiet, not saying anything that could make it worse. Just a hand on Riley’s hair, a slow, rhythmic motion.

After a minute, Riley pulled away, wiped her face with the heel of her palm, and sat up straighter. “Sorry,” she said, voice thick.

“Don’t be,” Chloe said, smiling now. “I’m glad you told me.”

Riley looked down at the bead in her hand, now a little wet with tears. She set it on the table and exhaled. “There’s something else, too. I feel happy.” She said it like a confession. “I shouldn’t, but I do. I’m happy she’s alive. Even like this.” She picked up the bead again, rolled it over her thumb. “Is that allowed?”

Chloe nodded. “I think both can be true.”

Riley laughed, a wet and shaky sound. “I don’t know how to carry it. I have a date with Andy tonight. I’m supposed to pretend it’s all normal, but all I can think about is this.”

Chloe smiled. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Not tonight.” She squeezed Riley’s hand, then let her own fingers slip away, just enough.

Riley looked out at the sun, the sea beyond the balcony, the strange impossible world they’d all landed in. She felt the bead in her palm, the rabbit on her pillow, Chloe’s hand, all of it.

For the first time since the visit, she let herself just sit with the feeling.

“Thanks, Chlo,” she said, and she meant it. She closed her hand around the bead and leaned into Chloe’s shoulder, quiet, letting the world be what it was, just for a minute.

---

The Sky Archive never felt more like home than when Sam was on the loose in it. Claire sat at the central table, the surface littered with a legal pad, three different-colored pens, two empty teacups, and a scatter of reference books from last night’s tangent. Above, daylight cast everything in a soft, forgiving wash. Behind her, Sam paced a tight circle, a granola protein bar in her right hand and a look of rising frustration on her face.

Sam said, “Okay, but how do you actually steal a comically sized museum sword if there’s still a security system? You’re telling me that place isn’t crawling with leftover wards after the whole heist?”

Claire didn’t look up, just wrote: The wards probably reset after the Third Challenge, stricter now than ever. Underlined stricter twice. She passed the note over her shoulder, not breaking rhythm.

Sam read it, chewed her lip, then said, “So it’s even worse than before.”

Claire nodded, already scribbling out a list titled Approach Vectors.

Sam dropped into the chair across from her, arms folding with a sharp thud. “We need a distraction. Like, someone draws them all off, and while they’re panicking, we slide in and out with the prize.”

Claire tapped the page, then wrote: Last time, it took eleven women in latex catsuits, and it nearly failed.

Sam’s smile flickered. “I mean, we could try latex again. But I’m not sure the harem could field eleven at short notice, not without Arabella noticing something’s fishy.”

Claire underlined harem, then drew a line to breakfast staff, then to a rough sketch of the museum’s front doors.

Sam leaned in, lowering her voice to a fake-conspiratorial whisper. “What if I just disguised myself as a museum guard and walked out with it?”

Claire raised an eyebrow—her favorite silent commentary—and wrote: The sword is nine feet long.

Sam waved her off. “Plenty of coats in the world. Or a golf bag. People sneak clubs everywhere, nobody cares.”

Claire wrote: It’s called Thrustworthy, Sam.

Sam grinned, caught. “Yeah, okay, the name is kind of impossible to work around. But what if we made it a feature, not a bug? Like, we announce we’re taking it, make a whole show of it. Reverse psychology.”

Claire was already three bullet points deep into a new page, the margin filling with miniature question marks and exclamation points.

Sam finally tore the wrapper from the granola bar, chewed off a bite, and said, “Or—this is insane—but what if we got Erin to just grow a plant through the wall and hand it out to us?” She gestured with the bar, crumbs scattering over the paper. “Like, green-hair powers, but applied to crime.”

Claire considered, then wrote: Erin’s vines max out at load-bearing. Sword probably weighs more than a structural beam. She underlined probably.

Sam pointed at her. “Okay, fair. What about Dawn? She could charm the guards into just handing it over. Like, full social engineering. We send her in with a clipboard and a smile and she just asks for it.”

Claire wrote, Dawn would feel too guilty and confess before she got to the door.

“True.” Sam chewed. “Riley? She’s good at moving without being seen.”

Claire blinked, staring at Sam. Nine. Feet. Long.

“Right.” Sam drummed her fingers on the table. “What if we built a fake exhibit around it? Like, we construct a whole new display case right next to the real one, swap them in the night, and by the time anyone notices, the real sword is already gone and there’s a very convincing replica made of—” she looked around, “—wrapping paper tubes and ambition.”

Claire gave this more consideration than it deserved, then wrote: Where do we get a nine-foot paper tube?

“Pool noodles. Ambition. I don’t know, we’re resourceful.”

Claire drew a small diagram of a pool noodle next to a small diagram of a twelve-foot sword. She connected them with a line and put a large X through the line.

Sam sat back down, chewed the last of the granola bar, and said, “Okay, last idea. Hear me out. We tell the museum it’s been recalled by the manufacturer.”

Claire’s pen hovered.

“Like, there’s a defect. A safety issue. We show up in coveralls with a clipboard and say Thrustworthy has been flagged for emergency inspection and needs to be removed from display immediately, pending review.”

Claire wrote, slowly and with great deliberateness: That might actually work. She stared at what she’d written for a moment, then underlined it.

Sam’s face split into a grin. “I knew it. Coveralls. Clipboard. Crime.”

Claire was already three bullet points deep into a new page, the margin filling with miniature question marks and exclamation points, when a soft knock interrupted them both.

Mildred opened the door without waiting for an answer. She wore her hair up in a perfectly rigid twist, lips painted a nearly lethal shade of violet. Across both arms she carried a sword nearly one and a half times as long as she was tall, blade wrapped in a velvet cloth that didn’t even try to hide its size, pommel unmistakably shaped like a dildo.

She set the sword against the wall with a single, deliberate motion. “Arabella said to deliver this to Contestant Collins, per the Master’s request.”

Sam stared at the sword, then at Mildred, then back at the sword. “When did Andy ask for it?”

Mildred’s face didn’t move a muscle. “This morning. I was told that it be delivered directly to you, and that you be warned it is very, very sharp.”

She turned to go, paused at the door, and added, “You are also not to duel with anyone inside the Archive. If you do, it voids the insurance and nets you a punishment transformation.” She was gone before either of them could reply.

Sam walked over to the sword, picked it up by the hilt, and turned it over in both hands. Despite the size, Sam’s inhuman strength made it feel like it weighed nothing. She looked at Claire, who had set her pen down for the first time since breakfast.

Sam rested the sword across her knees, not quite sure what to do with her hands. Up close, it was even more unconvincing as a weapon—at least for anyone with shame or a sense of aesthetics. The pommel alone could have doubled as an overgrown marital aid. The blade, mercifully, was still mostly velveted, but the edge that peeked out gleamed like it had been polished with vengeance in mind.

She tapped the hilt with one finger, then looked at Claire. “So,” she said, “the answer was just to ask Arabella for it. We could have saved the twelve-step crime plan and all the diagrams.”

Claire picked up her pen and wrote, slowly: Not as much fun.

Sam snorted. “Fun is relative. I think Arabella just likes us to sweat a little before she hands out the upgrades.” She picked up the sword with both hands, trying a practice swing, and nearly took out the far corner of the table.

Claire flinched, then gave her a sharp look.

Sam set the sword back down, more careful this time. “Okay. We have the sword. Next step is… what, exactly?”

Claire flipped to a new page. She wrote: Prepare. She looked up, and for once, Sam didn’t push for details.

Sam set the sword on the table, balanced it there, and sat back. “Think I’ll go practice with it. See if I can find a volunteer dummy that isn’t alive.”

Claire gave her a thumbs-up, then started writing again, the sound of pen on paper the only noise in the whole Archive.

Sam grinned, picked up the sword, and slung it over one shoulder. “If you need me, I’ll be in the garden. Don’t let anyone borrow this unless they can deadlift a small car.”

Claire gave her the faintest nod, her attention already sliding back to her notes.

Sam left the Archive, sword in tow. On her way out, she caught her own reflection in a pane of glass and realized she was smiling. She wondered if Andy would appreciate the irony, or if he’d just look at the sword and make a bad pun. Either way, she’d make sure he saw it first.

Back at the table, Claire underlined prepare three times, then circled it, and let herself smile just a little, too.

---

Dawn found Emily right where she expected: in the Banquet Hall, by the window that overlooked the zen garden’s raked gravel and sunlit orchids. The morning’s buffet was picked clean, but Emily sat alone at the far end, tracing the rim of a tea glass with one finger, naked as always. Her pale pink hair fell in a perfectly casual wave, draped forward so that it barely covered her nipples and not much else. She wasn’t even trying to hide. She looked up when Dawn approached, and her whole face brightened. “You look lighter,” she said. “Good morning.”

Dawn hesitated, then returned the smile. “Hey. Yeah. It’s… actually a good morning.”

Emily slid a plate of mochi toward her. “So? Tell me everything. You left here yesterday with three wishes and I want the whole story. Not just the highlights, either—the stuff you’d put in your diary, if you kept one.” She was grinning, but there was a softness behind it that made Dawn want to spill everything at once.

Dawn started with the obvious. “The wishes worked. All three. don’t think I ever believed it would go that well.” She was careful, trying not to get ahead of herself.

Emily beamed, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Okay, okay, let’s hear them. Wish number one?”

Dawn took a breath, and this time it didn’t catch. “I wanted to see my family. For real. So we visited my home, and I got to hug my dad and both brothers. We were in my old kitchen—he made coffee, the real kind, not the stuff from here. Even Luis was there, and he… actually liked Andy.” She laughed, then covered her mouth. “He grilled him at the door, wouldn’t let him in unless he answered all these questions. It was so embarrassing but also… perfect? My dad told Andy he was glad someone finally looked after me, instead of the other way around.”

Emily made a little sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “That’s so good. You deserve it. What did you do next?”

Dawn felt her eyes prick, but this time it was fine. “We just talked. About nothing and everything. It was the first time I’ve seen them since before I even started working at The Harrington that we didn’t fight, or stress about money, or pretend everything was normal.” She blinked, then wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “Sorry. It’s still kind of close to the surface.”

Emily reached across and squeezed her wrist, the touch light, unhurried. “No need to apologize. I love seeing you happy. What about wish two?”

Dawn drew a breath and let it out slow. “That one was a secret. I told Andy I wanted to tell him something I’d never said to anyone.” She looked out the window, then back. “It was after dinner, after he’d cooked for me. He asked why I wanted to marry him, and I told him the truth.” She smiled, shy now. “That he was the first person in my whole life who wanted to take care of me, instead of needing me to take care of them.”

Emily’s eyes softened, and she nodded. “That’s a good one. That’s… so good, Dawn.”

Dawn couldn’t help it—she grinned, all teeth and pride. “I think he needed to hear it, too. The way he looked at me when I said it—like I’d just handed him a puppy, or a sunrise. I don’t know.”

Emily’s hand was still on hers. She squeezed, gentle. “That’s why we’re here, right? To want what we want, and have someone say yes back.”

Dawn nodded, and it was easier than she expected. “Yeah. I think so.”

Emily let go, only to pour them both tea from a carafe Dawn hadn’t noticed. “So what was the third wish?” She poured, set the cup in front of Dawn, then tucked her knees up to her chest, letting her hair drape over her shins.

Dawn laughed, a little embarrassed. “That’s the dumbest one. I wanted to learn how to accept being cared for, instead of measuring my worth by how helpful I was.” She sipped the tea—citrusy, sweet, tasted like real lemons. “Andy cooked for me, and I tried to help twice anyway. He just smiled and told me to go sit, that it was my night off. I messed it up, almost, but he didn’t let me. He kept making me just… let it happen. It sounds small, but it was actually really, really hard.”

Emily’s laugh was delighted. “Did you at least improve by the second try?”

Dawn’s face went pink. “Barely. But it felt good to try. I think I actually started. That’s the hard part, right?”

Emily nodded, serious. “Always. Starting is the hardest. Everything else is just… practice.”

They sat a moment, both drinking tea. The room was quiet except for the faint clatter from the kitchen and the hush of the gardens outside.

Dawn stared at her hands, then at Emily. “Is it okay that I’m this happy? I keep waiting for it to disappear.”

Emily smiled, then leaned over and pressed their shoulders together. “It won’t. Big days always take a while to sink in. You’re allowed to have them.” She tucked a strand of hair behind Dawn’s bunny ear, gentle, and let her hand rest there a second before pulling away.

Dawn closed her eyes, let herself breathe, let herself be cared for. It felt strange and perfect all at once.

They sat together, watching the sun climb over the orchids. Dawn let herself lean into Emily’s warmth, and she didn’t have to do anything at all.

---

The Sunroom was always at its best before noon, when the whole space felt like the inside of a cut crystal—rays of gold from three angles, the garden outside blanketed in dew. The scent of wisteria drifted through the cracked window, and every time the wind caught, the hanging orchids shivered as if they could feel it.

Liesa and Marissa had claimed the best seats in the room: a low settee, pushed up to a table strewn with white roses, snapdragons, and fuchsia ranunculus. The stems lay across a folded cloth, half-sorted, with three pairs of shears and several coils of ribbon waiting to be chosen. Marissa sat cross-legged, hips angled toward the light; Liesa sprawled on her side, her skirt barely covering her thighs, a few freckles visible on her calves and knees.

They worked quietly, not in a hurry. Marissa trimmed stems with practiced hands, dipping each in water before arranging it in the vase. Liesa picked flowers for color, setting aside anything that didn’t match her vision. They passed the shears back and forth, fingers brushing, sometimes holding a stem together to debate whether it would droop or stand tall.

The door at the far side opened with a faint click. Katherine slipped in, silent as always, one hand trailing the edge of the doorway. Her hair hung to her ankles, a waterfall of black against her pale skin. She wore nothing, of course, her enormous breasts bouncing with each step, but she carried herself so matter-of-factly that it felt almost ceremonial. She moved to the windows, standing in a beam of light so dense it seemed to press her silhouette into the glass, shadowless and sharp. Marissa watched her, taking in the way her hands worried the edge of her own hip, the way she traced the grout between floor tiles with a bare toe, the way she glanced back at the table not once but twice before she finally turned all the way around.

Liesa broke the silence first, patting the open seat beside her. “You don’t have to watch from the corner, you know. Join us.” Her voice, a little hesitant, but warm.

Katherine approached, settling onto the hassock, posture perfect but never stiff. She watched Liesa prep the next stem, then held her hand out, palm open, like a child waiting to be handed a tool for the first time.

Marissa smiled, and Liesa handed her a blush-pink ranunculus. Katherine took it with both hands, studied the petals, then found the shears on the table and lifted them—awkward at first, then decisive, snipping the end just so. She looked to Liesa for confirmation; when Liesa nodded, grinning, Katherine seemed to glow, setting the trimmed stem into the growing bouquet.

They did three more in silence, the only sounds the whisper of scissors, the gentle click of glass, and the sifting sunlight as it cut a slow path across the room.

“Have you always liked flowers?” Liesa asked, picking up a spray of baby’s breath and offering it to Marissa, who trimmed it by feel.

Marissa shook her head. “Never cared much, honestly. I always thought of them as…” She hesitated, searching for the word. “Too much effort. But it’s different, doing it together.” She was aware of the way her own voice had changed, softer at the edges, and of the warmth that stole up her cheeks every time Katherine looked her way.

Liesa nodded. “My mother loved them. She would drag us out of bed every Sunday, rain or shine, to tend her garden. Back then, I resented it. But now, every time I touch a flower, I think of her hands.” Her accent thickened on the last word, and she smiled at herself, a private joke.

Katherine listened, but her gaze darted between the two of them, as if trying to memorize how this small, gentle ritual worked. When Marissa passed her a length of silk ribbon, she took it and wound it around the bouquet, careful and precise, her tongue caught between her teeth with the effort.

“You’re really good at this,” Marissa said, letting it be simple and true. “Better than me, anyway.”

Katherine shook her head, but the smile was still there, subtle and bright.

A few minutes passed in companionable silence. When the bouquet was nearly done, Liesa set the last stem herself—then leaned back, hands in her lap, as if to avoid crowding Katherine’s moment. Katherine lifted the finished bouquet, cradling it in both arms, and set it at the exact center of the table. She brushed a fallen petal into her palm and held it up to the light, letting it turn between her fingers.

Liesa watched, her expression gone gentle. “What’s it like, being out here?” she asked. “I mean… here in the Hotel, in the flesh.”

Katherine looked at her, then at Marissa, then at the room as a whole. She set the petal down and pressed both hands flat to her own chest, held them there for a moment, then opened her arms as wide as they’d go—like the answer was bigger than words could hold.

Marissa felt a prickle at the back of her throat. “You don’t have to be alone with that,” she said, voice softer still. “We’re happy you are here.”

Katherine smiled brightly and reached out, covered Marissa’s hand with hers. Her touch was warm, electric. Then she turned to Liesa and did the same—fingers wrapping around Liesa’s, slow and unhurried, thumb tracing the knuckle as if she could learn a person by touch alone.

Liesa squeezed back, her cheeks pinking. “You can stay as long as you want,” she said, and it sounded like she meant it.

They sat like that, three in a line, the unfinished bouquet gleaming in the sunlight.

After a while, Liesa spoke, not needing an answer. “My mother’s little garden was nothing like this. She grew tulips that never wanted to stay up straight. She would tie them to the fence with fishing line, tell me they just needed a little encouragement.” Her laugh was low, private. “She was right. They lasted a long time, if you helped them.”

Katherine’s smile went wide, crinkling at the eyes.

Marissa found herself humming, the same soft song she played at the piano late at night when no one was listening. She didn’t realize she was doing it until Liesa joined in, wordless, and then Katherine, humming under her breath in a key all her own.

The bouquet in the center of the table wasn’t perfect. The colors were a little mismatched, a few stems were crooked. But it was theirs, and when the light caught it just right, it glowed.

Katherine leaned back, her hands folded in her lap, and watched the sunlight play across the finished piece. She looked at the other two, then back at the flowers, and for the first time since joining them, she seemed fully, utterly at ease.

Marissa thought she’d never seen anything more beautiful.

They let the quiet linger, each of them content with the moment—each, in their own way, gathering the stillness like a blessing.

When the sun had moved far enough to cast new shadows on the table, Liesa finally said, “I think you did most of the work, you know.”

Katherine shook her head, but she was smiling, and for just that moment, it didn’t matter who had done what. They sat together, the flowers between them, the light holding all three faces in its gentle, forgiving glow.

---

The Sky Archive glowed with its own version of morning—a light so gentle it barely cast shadows, yet still strong enough to make every sheet of paper shine. Claire had been up for hours after Sam had left, rearranging the vision fragments until the arrangement made a kind of sense: eight lined up in order, a few outliers below, each with margin notes and cross-references like the timeline of a disaster nobody had the heart to stop.

She had just begun re-reading Andy’s notes on the fourth fragment, the one with the shattered Hotel, the only fragment that Andy had seen twice, both during his birthday and this time, when Erin took the last four stairs in a single bound and dropped into the chair across from her. Her stride had the same decisiveness as always. The sunlight did strange things to her mint-green skin: it made her look more alive than ever, but also a little spectral, as if she was only half here.

Erin didn’t wait for a greeting. “I’ve been thinking about that word,” she said, voice low. “Overreach.” She rested her elbows on the table, hands laced together so tight her knuckles bleached white. “I can’t get it out of my head. Was there anything new? Or did we run out of future yesterday?”

Claire let her eyes linger on Erin’s face for a moment. Then, without a word, she turned her notebook so Erin could see the latest changes. The eighth vision fragment was circled twice, its page dog-eared and marked with a large question mark.

Erin read it, slow: Andy, standing on the footbridge. Decades later, still unchanged, hands in his pockets. Alone. Missing Laura.

The words hung there, cold and final.

Erin stared at it, lips tight. “Why this one?”

Claire wrote: It doesn’t fit the others.

She tapped her pen against the next few pages, showing that the rest of the fragments—all of them—clustered within a few days or weeks of the present. The wedding, the debt, the confrontation on the beach, even the aftermath. Only this was set decades out.

“What about the ruined hotel? That could have been in the far future, too.”

Claire shook her head. No. If Andy was on a ruined version of the island, that suggests it would happen before the end of the game. There is no guarantee we will ever see this island again once the game is over.

Erin traced the edge of the page. “You think they’re not real? Just static, like a bad channel?”

Claire shook her head, then wrote: Possible, but unlikely. I also don’t think they’re metaphorical. They may not happen exactly the way he saw them, but I suspect these are actual events, not allegories. She tapped her next note: If the footbridge vision happens, it means something broke before.

Erin’s jaw worked. “Or it means Laura’s life is the price for the rest.”

Claire’s pen hovered, then wrote: Or it’s a warning. A split.

She underlined the word, hard.

“Like a fork in the road?” Erin’s voice was sharp now, but not angry—just restless, the way she always got when she couldn’t fix something with her hands.

Claire nodded.

Erin took a long breath, then let it out slow. She looked at the page as if it might confess to something, then back at Claire. “So which is it? Are we doomed to wind up without Laura, or is that what happens if we get this wrong?”

Claire considered, then wrote: A vision that far out might only be showing what happens if the main sequence fails. Branch, not destination. If I’m right, that is not guaranteed—it only happens if something goes wrong between now and the end.

Erin rubbed the bridge of her nose, then looked up at the ceiling, as if expecting a voice from on high to weigh in. “God. That’s actually a relief. I’d rather know that, even if it means…” She didn’t finish. “Better odds than none.”

Claire slid the notebook forward, letting Erin look as long as she wanted.

That was when Norah’s footsteps echoed down the stairs—sharp, staccato, the unmistakable tick of four-inch stilettos. She entered at a brisk walk, all long dark curls and navy jumpsuit, her lips painted with a severity that would’ve looked theatrical on anyone else. She stopped a foot from the table, arms crossed, and took in the fragments and the notebook in a single sweep.

She didn’t ask to join them. She just pulled a chair around and sat, perching at an angle that let her see both women at once. “You two look like you’ve solved the energy crisis,” she said, dry. “Or you’re plotting the demise of the Hotel. Which is it?”

Erin gave her a look, but it didn’t stick. “We’re talking about the visions. Claire thinks there’s a split—that the vision of Andy in the far future only happens if something goes wrong.”

Norah scanned the notebook, then the fragments, then Claire. “You’re saying they might cancel each other out?”

Claire nodded, then wrote: Not all branches survive. Only one does.

Norah sat back, her gaze sharpening. “So if we win—whatever that means—the other futures just…” She flicked her hand. “Vanish?”

Erin spoke before Claire could answer. “Or they never happen at all. That’s the hope, anyway.”

Norah’s mouth curved, faint. “I’ll take a maybe over a guarantee.” She tapped a nail on the table. “But that means we don’t just have to win at the very end—we have to not lose, at any step. One wrong move, and we get the fragment nobody wants.”

Erin nodded, and for the first time her smile was genuine, if a little bleak. “That’s life. You fight for the good ones. The rest, you just have to make peace with.”

Norah regarded her, then Claire, and for a second her usual cynicism cracked enough to show something like respect.

The three of them sat there, the silence comfortable. Claire underlined the word branch again, so hard the pen nearly tore the page. She closed the notebook, set her hands on top of it, and let herself breathe.

Around them, the Archive’s false dawn glimmered, turning their faces gold and blue in turn. The vision fragments glowed on the table, the future not yet decided, but perhaps, at least, within reach.

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Author's Note: Ask anything of the cast! Submit your questions here (deadline is August 23): https://forms.gle/Ffm3otrY4yMFYC158