Below her, ribbons of green and violet curl across the poles, shimmering like breath against the night. It’s not the first aurora she’s seen from orbit, but this one feels different — brighter, alive. She thinks of the Christmas lights her father used to hang along the eaves of their house, blinking patterns that never quite synced. He’d laugh every year and say, “Perfection’s overrated, sweetheart. Just make it shine.”
Inside the café, the world softens around the edges. The espresso machine has gone quiet, its metal belly releasing one last sigh of steam. She wipes down the counter in slow, practiced circles. When she finishes, she pours herself a small mug from what remains in the pot — lukewarm, but still comforting — and brings it with her as she turns.
Time, for her, is elastic. Sometimes it stretches, gossamer-thin, like taffy pulled too far, and she can walk its length to touch the moment when her mother bent to kiss her scraped knee, or the instant she first realized she’d fallen in love. Other times it snaps tight and whips her forward, years ahead, where she sees a conversation that hasn’t happened yet, the face of a friend she hasn’t met.
