And then she saw her.
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. turnstile entrance
The turnstile behind Clara clanked—once, twice. She spun around. A man in a gray uniform stood there, his face kind but firm. “One ticket, one turn,” he said gently. “You can’t stay. The gate only opens one way for each soul.” And then she saw her
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. whole and healthy