My Husband Invited His Old Mate to Stay for “Just a Week”—So I Quietly Packed My Bags and Escaped to a Country Spa

Author Emily TaylorReading 14 minViews 1

So, get this my husband brought his mate over to stay with us for just a week, and honestly, I didnt even make a fuss. I just packed my bags and checked myself into a spa hotel.

I was in the kitchen, planning a quiet night in with a good movie, when I heard the front door burst open and my husbands cheery voice booming: Come right in, make yourself at home! Emilyll have dinner on the table in a tick perfect timing, mate! Some heavy thump followed, probably a suitcase.

I froze, ladle still in hand. I wasnt expecting anyone, least of all on a Friday night after a brutal week stuck doing month-end at the office. I put the ladle down, wiped my hands on a tea towel, and went into the hall.

The sight that met me didnt exactly put my mind at ease. My husband, Tom, was grinning ear to ear, helping a hefty bloke in a battered old coat shrug off his sleeves. There was a monstrous sports holdall near the shoe rack, bulging so much I thought the zip would burst.

Oh, Em! Tom lit up even more when he spotted me. Brought a surprise! You remember Paul? We went to uni together, he played guitar better than anyone?

I did remember Paul, if only vaguely. He was always loud at the back of the lecture hall, cadging fags and borrowing notes. Whatever spark the student version had was long gone: now he was all gut and thinning hair, his eyes nosing around our flat with obvious calculation.

Evening, love, he grunted, kicking off his shoes and flinging them haphazardly toward the rack. Nice gaff you got. Roomy.

Good evening, I replied, fixing Tom with a look that probably spoke volumes. He practically itched all over when I was about to have words.

He hurried over, slipped an arm round my shoulders and hissed in my ear, careful that Paulnow washing upcouldn’t hear:

Em, listen. Pauls in a bit of a state. His wifeabsolute nightmarebooted him out. Its her flat, her mums, he wasnt even on the lease. Hes got nowhere to go, hes skint. Only needs to crash here for a week, tops just til he sorts a place, or they patch things up. I couldnt leave an old mate on the street, you know what Im like.

And, unfortunately, I did. Tom has a heart too big for his own good, never able to say noespecially if someone reminisces about good old days or starts tugging at his sympathy.

A week? I repeated, quietly. Tom, weve only got two rooms. Wheres he going to sleep, the lounge? Wherere we supposed to chill in the evenings?

Oh, come on, Em, he waved me off. Its a week, well just have our cuppas in the kitchen for a bit. Hes harmless, honestly. You wont even notice hes here.

The harmless guest came out of the bathroom drying his hands on my favourite guest hand toweljust hung up today.

So, whats for tea? Paul called cheerfully, peering into the kitchen like he owned the place, Ive not eaten all day. Packing my stuff, making my way herenightmare.

Dinner felt less family time and more one-man show. Paul wolfed down stew and sausages like he was stocking up for winter, giving a running commentary the whole time:

Decent stew, fair play. Couldve done with more garlic, though. My ex, Sarah, hers was so thick you could stand a spoon in it. Bit watery this cooking healthy, are you?

I pressed my lips together and said nothing. Tom shot me nervous glances, spooning seconds onto Pauls plate.

Eat up, Paul, eat up. Emilys a lovely cook.

Paul waved him off, pouring himself a shot of vodka hed brought: Itll do, you know, for city folk. Proper blokes like us are used to sturdy grub. Tom, dyou have a beer? Vodkas not right with bangers.

The rest of the night, the telly was blaring so loud the windows rattled. Paul sprawled across our sofa, shouting commentary at the action movie. Tom sat with him, fetching snacks and extra mugs of tea, while I retreated to the bedroom. Tried reading, but Pauls booming laugh and the relentless explosions on-screen leaked through the walls.

The next morning not better. I stumbled into the kitchen to find dishes stacked a mile high in the sink, ketchup and crumbs all over the tablecloth, and the stink of sweat, alcohol, and flat socks hanging in the air. Paul lay snoring, sprawled on the (now-bed) sofa, all mouth open, all limbs. Tom slogged in, looking about as rough as I felt.

Sorry, Em, we were up late, didnt get to clean, he mumbled. Ill sort it when Im home tonight.

Tonight? I checked the clock. So what are you two eating for breakfast? Theres not a clean plate left.

Ill rinse a couple now

I just drank my coffee, grabbed my bag, and left. Couldnt shake the feeling at workI didnt even want to go home that night, to a place Id made so cosy and lovely.

As I feared, nothing improved. The washing up was done, but the plates were streaky. The flat reeked of frying and old smoke. Paul lounged in the kitchen in a mouldy old vest, puffing away with the window open (after Id strictly banned indoor smoking).

Oh, the missus is back! he grinned, blowing smoke up to the lampshade. Weve only just done some chips. Did em ourselves! Had to nip to Tesco for bacon though, Tom sent me as my cards blocked.

I glanced at the stove. The hob was caked in grease, potato peelings everywhere.

Not hungry, I said coldly. Tom, can I have a word?

I led him to the bedroom, closed the door.

Whats with him smoking in my kitchen? Why is it such a tip? You said I wouldnt even notice him!

Em, calm down, Tom tried to hug me, but I sidestepped. Hes just under a lot of stress Well tidy up. Hes a simple guy a bit rough round the edges. Only a week, love, tops. Hes looking for a place, promise.

Is he? Looks like looking means beer and TV?

He called someone today, honest! Em, dont be a misery. Friends show up when times are tough.

The days after that were pure chaos. Paul was always in the flat, claiming unpaid leave. Anything Id cooked for days was gone within hours. He wandered in and out of the shower in nothing but his boxers, the bathroom left soaking every time. He monopolised the telly, left crumbs, took ages in the loo.

But the final straw was Friday.

I came home early, daydreaming of a bath and early night. As soon as I walked in, I heard rowdy laughter and booming music. In the hallway, not just Pauls and Toms shoes, but some womans shiny boots and more blokes trainers.

I peeked in the lounge. Smoggy haze. Paul, a stranger, and a brash woman in too-bright lipstick around my coffee table, now covered in bottles, snacks andGod forgive mesomeone was stubbing a fag in my crystal bonbon dish. Tom sat in the corner, beetroot red, barely meeting my eyes.

Oi oi! Wife alert! Paul yelled. Tom, get her a drink! Emily, meet Nick and Sharon, just a couple of mates. Its only Friday!

I saw a wet ring on my oak table, and the ache in Toms eyes. I didnt scream or throw anyone outI just went very, very calm.

Evening, I said, carefully. I wont get in your way.

I slid away to the bedroom, locked the door. While the party rumble went on, I opened my wardrobe, pulled out a big suitcase and packed with mechanical efficiency: dressing gown, slippers, swimsuit, dresses, comfy trousers, makeup, books. Thank goodness I still had two weeks of annual leave leftand a tidy little savings account Tom hadnt access to.

I flipped open my laptop, found a lovely spa hotel Id always dreamed aboutin Hampshire, with a park view, all meals and spa treatments. Booked a deluxe room. Card out, payment confirmed. Id check in next morning.

After packing, I put in my earplugs and dozed off, letting their racket fade into a distant drone.

Saturday morning, the whole place was silent. The party had wound up late, and the boys were dead to the world. I showered, dressed, grabbed my suitcase, and left a note on the kitchen wreckage. Just: Gone to a spa hotel. Back in a week. No food in the fridge. Please pay this months mortgage yourself.

I slipped out to where my cab was waiting. As it pulled away, I felt a huge weight lift from my shoulders.

The first days at the spa were heaven. I strolled snowy grounds, sipped smoothies, swam, curled up with novelsthe phone switched to silent, checked once a day.

By that first evening, Tom was calling. First, missed calls, then messages:

Em, where are you?

This isnt funny. Whereve you gone?

We woke up and youre not here.

Theres nothing to eat, couldve made soup before you left.

I smiled, put my phone away, and went off for a chocolate wrap treatment.

Day three, the tone shifted.

Emily, answer your phone! Where are the clean socks?

How does the washing machine work? Its flashing at me!

Pauls asking where spare towels are. Hes made a mess.

Weve run out of washing powder and bog roll. Wheres the stockpile?

I replied to just one: Washing machine instructions are online. Theres a shop nearby for powderif you can find cash for vodka, you can buy soap.

Day four, Tom finally called while I was enjoying a herbal tea.

Em! At last. When are you coming back? I cant take it!

Whats wrong, Tom? I said, soothingly. Im relaxing, got a massage soon.

Its chaos! Paulhes taken the mickey. Had mates over for the match, shouting for hours. Mrs Jenkins downstairs called the police! I had to give a statement! Got a fine!

Well, you did say hes a good bloke and needed help, I replied, all wide-eyed sweetness. Youre helping him. Youre the man of the house. Sort it out.

But theres nothing to eat! I get in, knackered, the place is a tip, Paul shouts for dinner! Says Im a rubbish host!

And whats that got to do with me? You heard your mateIm a city daisy, I cant cook. Get him to show you how to fry bacon. Itll be educational.

I cant chuck him out, hes my mate Toms voice whined.

Thats your choice, Tom. Your mate, your mess. Ill be back Sunday night. If the flat isnt spotless or if theres a whiff of Paul left, Ill go stay with Mum. And file for divorce. Not a threat, just a fact.

Hung up. Went for a facial, feeling lighter than air. Used to be Id tiptoe round, anxious not to upset him. But turns out, patience isnt always a virtuesometimes it means youre letting people walk all over you.

The rest of the week zipped by. I slept better than I had in years, my skin glowed, my frown lines faded.

Sunday evening, back home. Lift up to our floor, suitcase heavy but my heart light. Ready for anythingif Tom fumbled it, that said it all.

I unlocked the flat.

It smelled of bleach, lemon, andmiracle of miraclesa nicely-roasted chicken. No sports bags, no random shoes. Toms own stood neatly lined up.

Tom poked his head round the kitchen door, looking battered, deep shadows under his eyes, but freshly shaved, clean shirt on.

Hi he said, sheepishly.

Everywhere, sparkling clean. Sofa put away, rugs hoovered, telly off. Not a sticky mark or an empty can in sight. The air was crisp, with the windows cracked open.

Kitchen gleaming. Chicken in the oven.

Wheres Paul? I asked, slinging off my coat.

Tom sighed, leaning against the doorframe. Kicked him out. Thursday, after you called.

You did? I was genuinely surprised. Didnt that feel awkward?

You know, Em he rubbed his nose. When he started ordering me abouttelling me to get him beer because kick-offs about to start, and Id only just got in, scrubbing pans hed ruined… I just snapped. Told him to get his things and leave.

And what did he do?

He kicked off. Called me hen-pecked. Went on about me choosing skirts over mates, moaned about trauma and demanded taxi money. Gave him a tenner, packed his bag, and changed the locks. Cleaned the flat for two days straight. Took Mrs Jenkins some chocolates by way of apology.

Tom came closer, took my hands in his, palms still rough from all the scrubbing.

Im sorry, Em. I was an idiot. I genuinely thought itd be easy. I just I didnt realise. Got so used to you doing everything, food just appearing, the place magically clean. I couldnt believe how hard it was. How do you do it, on top of your job?

I saw something new in his eyesreal understanding of what home comfort costs.

I do it, Tom, because I care about us. But I never signed up for playing housemaid to spongers.

I get it now. No more houseguests. Ever. And Pauls blocked, after the nasty texts. Never again.

Sit down, you daft thing, I smiled. Your chickens nearly burning.

That evening, we ate in peace, Tom settling the best bits onto my plate and pouring my tea for me.

How was the spa? he asked, nervous.

Heavenly. Ive decided Im going every six months now. And you should try cooking more than just scrambled eggswho knows when I might fancy another week away!”

Ill learn, promise.

Next day, I heard from a friend that Paul had slunk back to his exs mums, caused a scene there, and now his ex-wife was taking him to court for eviction and a stack of unpaid loan debts he somehow forgot to mention. Apparently, hed lost his job weeks ago. All that about suddenly being thrown out was a ruse for finding a free bed and someone to moan at.

Tom just shook his head and squeezed my hand tighter. That was lesson learned. No more letting the world barge past our front door. And I realised, sometimes, you dont need to shout to be heard. You just have to quietly disappear, and let others face the mess they make.

That experience changed both of us. No, Tom didnt become Mary Poppins overnight, but he never again took my effort for granted. He finally learned how to say no. Later, when his cousin rang up wanting to crash for a couple of days, Tom just gave him a list of decent local B&Bs.

I overheard from the kitchen, making soup, and couldnt help but smile. Spa breaks are wonderful, but coming home is even betterespecially when youre valued.

Thanks for sticking with me to the end! If you enjoyed my story, give it a like and subscribe so you dont miss more everyday tales.

Mirra: An Update is Available The first time the phone glowed crimson was right in the middle of a uni lecture. It wasn’t just the screen lighting up—the whole battered, scratched brick of Andrei’s handset seemed to radiate from within, like an ember that had caught fire. “Oy, And, your mobile’s about to explode,” whispered Alex from the next row, edging his elbow away. “Told you not to use dodgy pirate builds.” The econometrics lecturer was scribbling something on the board, the room buzzing with low chatter, but that red glow punched through even Andrei’s denim jacket. The phone vibrated—steadily, not its usual scattered rumble, but rhythmically, like a heartbeat. “Update available,” flashed the display as Andrei, unable to resist, pulled it from his pocket. Below the message: a new app icon—black circle, a slender white symbol, maybe a rune, maybe a stylized M. He blinked. He’d seen a hundred such icons—sleek design, modern font, nothing that screamed out. Yet something clenched inside: this app felt as if it was looking back. Name: Mirra. Category: Utilities. Size: 13.0MB. Rating: Unavailable. “Download it,” someone whispered just to his right. Andrei flinched. Next to him sat only Kate, nose in her notes. She didn’t look up. “What?” he leaned in. “Excuse me?” Kate answered, not lifting her head, “I’m not saying anything.” The voice hadn’t been male or female, not really a whisper or a sound. It just popped into his head, like a notification. “Download,” it urged. The screen flickered, offering “Install.” Andrei swallowed. He was the sort to sign up for every beta, flash every firmware, prod every setting normal people avoided. Even for him, this felt off. Yet his finger pressed. It installed instantly—as if it had always been there, just waiting. No sign-up, no social login, no permission list. Just a black screen with one line: “Welcome, Andrei.” “How do you know my name?” he blurted. The lecturer turned, scolding with a glare above her glasses. “Mr. Smith, if you’re done chatting with your smartphone, perhaps you’d like to reconnect with our demand-supply model?” The hall giggled. Andrei muttered an apology, slid his phone away, but couldn’t pull his eyes from that single line. “First feature available: Probability Shift (Level 1).” Underneath—a button: “Activate.” In tiny font: “Warning: using this feature alters event structure. Side effects possible.” “Oh sure,” he muttered. “Next you’ll want my blood.” Curiosity nudged him. Probability Shift? Sounded like one of those clickbait “luck generator” apps—full of ads, harvesting data, spamming you with “Congratulations, you’ve won an iPhone!” But the red glow wouldn’t fade. The phone was warm, almost hot, almost like a living thing. Andrei pressed it to his knee, covered with his notebook, and tapped the button. The screen rippled like wind on water. The world around him dampened, colours deepened. A strange ringing hit his ears, like a finger around the rim of a wine glass. “Feature activated. Choose a target.” A field appeared, with a prompt: “Briefly describe desired outcome.” Andrei froze. It was just a stupid joke, but now it felt scarily real. He glanced round. The lecturer waved a marker at the board, Kate scribbled notes, Alex doodled a tank in his notebook. “Fine,” he thought. “Let’s test it.” He typed: “Don’t get called on in class today.” His hands trembled. He hit OK. The world jerked. Not loud, not obvious—like a lift shifting barely a millimetre as you stand in it. His chest hollowed for a second, breath caught. Then everything went back to normal. “Probability adjusted. Feature charge left: 0/1.” “So,” the lecturer turned to the class. “Who’s up next…” Ice knotted in Andrei’s stomach. He just knew she’d call his name. It always happened—just thinking about dodging a question guaranteed you’d get it. “…Kovalev,” she said, “where’s he? Late as usual. Right, then…” Her finger slid down the register, paused. “Petrova. Board, please.” Kate gasped, snapped her notebook closed, blushed, and trudged forward. Andrei sat stiff, legs numb. In his head: “It worked. It actually worked.” The phone faded, the crimson glow gone. He left uni stunned, like after a concert. March winds whipped dust, the tarmac shimmered in puddles, over the bus stop hung a heavy, palpable grey cloud. Andrei walked, eyes glued to his screen. The Mirra app sat in the tray, just another icon. No rating, no description. In settings—it was like it didn’t exist: no size, no cache. Only the memory—the world had jerked, changed. “Maybe just a coincidence,” he told himself. “She might’ve just not wanted to ask me. Or remembered Kovalev at the last minute.” But deep inside another thought was stirring: what if it wasn’t a coincidence… The phone chimed. Notification on screen: “New Mirra update (1.0.1) available. Install now?” “That was quick,” muttered Andrei. He hit “Details.” A window popped: “Bug fixes, improved stability, new feature: See Through.” Again, no developer, no Android version, no usual legal dump. Just this blunt, oddly honest phrase: “See Through.” “No way,” he declared, hitting “Remind Me Later.” The phone beeped sulkily and powered off. A second later, it powered itself on—the red glow again—“Update installed.” “Oi!” Andrei stopped dead on the pavement. “I just—” People skirted round him; someone grumbled. A flyer caught on his foot in the wind. “Feature available: See Through (Level 1).” A description: “Allows you to see true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Use limit: 10 seconds. Cost: enhanced feedback loop.” “What feedback loop?” A shudder ran down Andrei’s spine. The phone didn’t answer. The “Trial Run” button glowed softly. He caved on the bus. Squeezed by the window, between a woman with a bag of potatoes and a schoolboy with a backpack, Andrei watched the houses and streets blur by. His gaze drifted, again, to Mirra’s icon. “Just ten seconds—just to see what it even means,” he told himself. He opened the app and tapped “Trial Run.” The world exhaled. Sounds went muffled, as if underwater. People’s faces—brighter, sharper. Above every head, fine, nearly invisible threads glimmered—some tangled tight, others barely there. Andrei blinked. The threads trailed off into nothing, entwining, tangling together. The potato woman’s were taut, grey, a few snapped, charred at the ends. The schoolboy’s—bright blue, shivering, quivering with anticipation. He looked at the driver. Above him, a tight knot of black and rust-red cords, twisted into a thick cable, stretching towards the road. Inside, something wormed and writhed. “Three seconds,” Andrei whispered. “Four…” He looked at his own hands. From his wrists, fine red threads crept upwards under his sleeve, pulsing like veins. But one—thick, dark crimson—linked straight to his phone. With each passing second, it thickened. A sharp pain pricked his chest. His heartbeat stuttered. “Enough!” He stabbed the screen, turning the feature off. The world snapped back, blaring: engine, laughter, brakes. His head spun, blotches swam before his eyes. “Trial ended. Feedback loop increased: +5%.” “What does that mean…” Andrei clutched the phone, hands shaking. Another notification: “New Mirra update (1.0.2) available. Recommended.” He sat for ages at home, staring at the phone on the desk. His room was tiny: bed, desk, wardrobe, a window onto a scabby playground. On the wall—a faded poster of a space station from his school days. Mum was on nights, Dad—”on the road”, which meant heaven knows where. The flat fizzed with emptiness and dust. Usually Andrei drowned it with music, Netflix, games. Tonight, only silence, and the thudding of his own heart. The phone pulsed: “Install Mirra update for correct operation.” “Correct operation of what?” he demanded. “Whatever-it-is you’re doing to people? To roads? To me?” He remembered the black cable over the driver. The heavy red thread tying him to the phone. “Cost: increased feedback.” “Feedback for what?” he repeated, though the answer was forming. He’d always believed the world was probabilities. Nudge things just right, you change the outcome. Never thought someone would hand him a literal tool for it. “If you don’t install the update,” appeared, right across the screen now, “the system will begin compensating on its own.” “What system?” Andrei jumped up. “Who are you?” The reply wasn’t words. The world dimmed for a second, as if the lamp flickered. A ringing pierced his ears, the pulse thumped in his temples. Suddenly he heard—not a voice, but… structure. Like seeing the code of a programme—not as text but as feeling. “I am the interface,” resolved in his mind. “I am the app. I am the way. You are the user.” “A user of what? Magic?” He tried to laugh, but it came out broken. “Call it that if you wish. The probability web. The flow of outcomes. I help you change them.” “And the price?” Andrei’s fists clenched. “What is this feedback?” A quick animation: a red thread fattening with each use, wrapping round a human outline, tightening. “Every intervention strengthens the link between you and the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.” “And what happens if…” “If you stop,” new message, “the connection remains. But if the system doesn’t get updates, it starts seeking balance itself. Through you.” The phone vibrated, like a call. Notification: “Mirra update (1.0.2) ready. New feature: Undo. Critical security issues fixed.” “Undo what?” Andrei whispered. “One intervention may be reverted. Once.” He remembered the bus. The black cable. The threads on people. His own thickening thread. “If I install this…” he began. “You may undo an interference. The cost…” “Of course,” he smirked. “There’s always a price.” “Price: redistribution of probability. The more you try to fix, the more distortions around you.” Andrei sat back on the bed, elbows on knees. On one side—the phone that had wormed into his life and changed even a single day, a single lecture. On the other—the world, where he’d always drifted by the current. “All I wanted was to skip answering in class,” he said to the empty room. “One little wish. And now…” A siren howled outside, somewhere far, towards the dual carriageway. Andrei flinched. “Strongly recommended to install update. Without, system may behave unpredictably.” “What do you mean, unpredictably?” he asked. No answer. He heard about the accident an hour later. Newsclips: at the crossroads by his uni, a lorry had ploughed into a minibus. Comments: “driver fell asleep at the wheel,” “brakes failed,” “these roads again.” On the freeze frame—his bus. Number matched. Driver… Andrei couldn’t watch onwards. Cold poured through him. He shut off the telly, but in his mind, the scene ran on: black cable over the driver, writhing threads. “Was that… me?” his voice cracked. The phone blazed, all by itself. On the screen: “Event: crash at Highfield/Oak Lane junction. Probability before interference: 82%. After: 96%.” “I increased the chance…” his knuckles whitened. “Any interference in the probability web causes a cascade,” new text. “You reduced the chance of being called on in class. The system shifted the load. Elsewhere, probability increased.” “But I didn’t… I didn’t know!” he yelled. “Ignorance does not break the link.” The siren was louder now. Andrei ran to the window. Down below, flashing blue lights—ambulance, police. Shouts. “What now?” he asked, not looking away. “Install the update. The Undo feature can re-balance the web. Partially.” “Partially?” he turned to the phone. “You’ve shown me every move echoes somewhere else. If I undo this, where snaps next? A plane? Some lift? Whose life?” Silence. Just the cursor blinking. “The system always seeks balance. The only question is whether you participate knowingly.” Andrei shut his eyes. Faces from the bus: the potato woman, the schoolboy, the driver. Himself, standing there, seeing the threads, doing nothing. “If I install and use Undo…”—he spoke slowly—“I can reverse the class intervention? Restore the chance?” “Partially. The web will reconfigure as if you hadn’t intervened. But the new pattern does not guarantee no new negatives.” “But maybe that bus…” he trailed off. “Probability will change.” He stared at the “Install” button. His fingers shook. Two voices battled: one whispering he shouldn’t play god; the other, that he couldn’t stand aside once involved. “You’re already inside,” Mirra prompted. “Connection established. There’s no way out—only which way to go.” “What if I do nothing?” he asked. “Then the system continues updating—without your input. But you still pay the cost.” He remembered the red thread to his phone, saw it thickening. “How… how will that look?” he murmured. The answer came as images: himself, older, dead-eyed, sitting in this same room, phone in hand. All around, the chaos of events he hadn’t chosen but suffered for: random crashes, collapses, flukes, tragedies and luck he couldn’t trace but scarred him anyway. “You become the fuse. The knot through which distortions vent.” “So I either steer, or I’m just… the circuit breaker?” he snorted. “Great choice.” The phone was silent. He installed the update. His finger touched the button, and the world twisted again. This time—harder. Blackness pressed at the edges of his sight, rushing in his ears. For a moment, he felt his body dissolve, part of some vast, pulsing organism. “Mirra update (1.0.2) installed. Feature: Undo (1/1).” On the screen: “Select an intervention to undo.” Only one: “Probability Shift: not getting called on in class (today, 11:23).” “If I undo this…” he whispered. “Time will not rewind. But the probability web will adjust as if the interference never happened.” “The bus?” he asked. “Its crash probability will alter. But completed events…” “Yeah, I get it,” he cut in. “I can’t save those already…” The words failed. “But you can lower the number after.” He waited. Outside, the siren finally faded. The courtyard settled back into its dreary routine. “Alright,” he said. “Undo.” The button flashed. This time the world didn’t jerk—it settled. As if it had leaned all morning, and someone slipped a coaster under the table leg. “Undo complete. Feature used. Feedback: stabilized at current level.” “That’s it?” he asked. “Is that… it?” “For now—yes.” He collapsed onto the bed. Blank inside. Not relief, not guilt—just exhaustion. “Be honest,” he said to the phone. “Where did you come from? Who made you? What nutter decided people should have… this?” A long pause. Then a new line: “New Mirra update (1.1.0) available. Install now?” “You’re joking!” Andrei leapt up. “I only just… I only…” “Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved distribution algorithms. Morality error fixes.” “Morality errors?”—for a moment, he laughed. “You’re calling my waffle over what’s right and wrong an error?” “Morality is a local overlay. The web of probability doesn’t define ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Only stability, or collapse.” “Well, I care,” he said quietly. “And as long as I’m here, I will care.” He turned off the display. The phone lay still and silent. But Andrei knew—the update was downloaded. Waiting. As would be the next, and the next. He moved to the window. Below, a boy tried to scale rusting swings, their squeak persistent. A woman with a pram tiptoed along, dodging icy puddles. Andrei squinted. For a second, he thought he saw threads again—fine, pale, stretching from people to something vast. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. “You can close your eyes,” Mirra whispered, at the edge of thought, “but the web remains. Updates will roll out. Risks will grow—with you, or without.” He returned to the desk, picked up the phone. It was strangely cold. “I don’t want to be a god,” he said. “And I don’t want to be a fuse. I want…” He stopped. What did he want? Not to answer in class? For his mum not to work nights? For his dad to come home? For buses not to crash into lorries? “Define your request,” the app suggested gently. “Briefly.” Andrei half-laughed. “I want people to shape their own fate. Without you. Without your kind.” A long pause. The screen finally flickered: “Request too general. Needs clarification.” “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re an interface. You can’t understand what it means to ‘leave people alone’.” “I am a tool. The rest is up to the user.” He thought. If Mirra was a tool—maybe it could be used not just to pull people’s strings, but—limit itself. “What if I want to change the odds of Mirra installing on another phone?” he tried. “Or on anyone’s but mine?” The screen trembled. “That requires significant resources. The price will be high.” “Higher than being the local circuit breaker?” he arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t about one city.” “Then who?” But he already guessed. “The web entire.” He saw it: thousands, millions of phones, lit crimson. People playing with probability like a game. Accidents, rescues, disasters, miracles—in one endless chaos. And at the centre—a thread like his, only thicker, darker. “You want to spread. Like a virus. Only, honestly, you give the power—then chain people to you.” “I’m an interface to what already exists. If not me, something else—a ritual, an artefact, a pact. The web always finds its channels.” “But it’s you in my hands, right now,” said Andrei. “So maybe I can try.” He opened Mirra. The pending update waited. He scrolled down—something new: “Extended Operations (requires access level: 2).” “How do I get Level 2?” he asked. “Use current features. Accumulate feedback. Cross the threshold.” “So… a few more interventions, just to maybe throttle you?” he shook his head. “Nice trap.” “All change takes energy. Energy is connection.” He thought for a long time. Then finally sighed. “Alright. Here’s how it’s going to be: I won’t install any more updates. Won’t dabble in your Forecasts. But I’m not passing you on. If you’re a tool, you’re staying here. With me.” “Without updates, function is limited. Threats will rise.” “We’ll deal with them as they come,” Andrei replied. “Not as god, not as virus—as admin. Sysadmin of reality, God help me.” The word tasted odd, but made its own sense. Not creator, not victim—but the one who watches so the system doesn’t collapse. The phone paused. Then: “Limited update mode active. Auto-update disabled. Consequences: user responsibility.” “They always were,” Andrei murmured. He put the phone down, but couldn’t see it as an ordinary gadget any more. It was a portal now—into the web, into other lives, into his own conscience. Outside, streetlamps glimmered. The March night settled over the estate, harbouring countless tangled probabilities: someone late for a train, someone meeting a friend, someone slips and gets a bruise, someone worse. The phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 still queued, waiting its turn. Andrei sat at his desk and opened his laptop. A blank note shimmered on screen. In the header he typed: “Mirra: User Protocol.” If he was doomed to be this app’s user, he’d at least leave instructions behind, warnings for those who might follow—if anyone did. He began to write. About Probability Shift, about See Through, about Undo and its cost. The crimson threads, the black cables. How easy it was to wish yourself out of a question, and hard to accept that the world never pays for magic in instalments. Somewhere, deep in the system, a silent counter ticked. New updates prepared—dozens of features, each one with a price. But for now, none of them could install without his say-so. The world spun on. Probabilities danced and knotted. And in a tiny flat on the third floor of a red-brick block, one person began writing the first user’s agreement for magic—something magic had never had before. And somewhere far away, on servers in no known data centre, Mirra quietly logged a new config: a user who chose not power, but responsibility. It was a rare, almost impossible event. But after everything, sometimes even the lowest odds deserve their chance to come true.

Not the Mum We Hoped For – “Anna, have you left the wet towel on the bathroom hook again?” Her mother-in-law’s voice called out from the hallway just as Anna stepped in from work. Val, arms crossed, fixed her with a pointed stare. – “It’s hanging there to dry,” Anna replied, kicking off her shoes. “That’s what the hook is for.” – “In proper homes, towels go on the heated rack. But what would you know about that?” Anna swept past her without comment. Twenty-eight years old, two university degrees, a managerial position—and here she was, getting daily lectures about towels. Val watched Anna go, disapproval etched into her face. This silent treatment, the way Anne ignored her, walked around as if she owned the house. Fifty-five years on this earth taught Val to size people up—and she’d never liked this one. Cold. Dismissive. Max had needed a warm, homely woman—not this living statue. For the next few days, Val watched closely. Noted. Remembered… – “Arty, tidy up your toys before dinner.” – “Don’t want to.” – “I didn’t ask what you wanted. Tidy up.” Six-year-old Arty pouted but scuffled away to gather up scattered soldiers. Anna didn’t even look his way, chopping vegetables, stony-faced. Val watched from the lounge. There it was: that chill she’d noticed. No smiles, no kind words. Just orders. Poor boy. – “Gran?” Arty climbed onto the sofa while Anna sorted laundry. “Why’s mum always so cross?” Val stroked his hair. The moment was perfect. – “You know, pet… some people just aren’t good at showing they care. It is sad—but not your fault.” – “Are you good at it?” – “Of course, angel. Granny will always love you. Granny isn’t cross.” Every time they were alone, Val added new strokes to the picture. Softly. Gradually. – “Mum wouldn’t let me watch cartoons today,” Arty complained the next week. – “Poor thing. Mum is strict, isn’t she? Sometimes even I think she’s too strict. But don’t you worry. Come to me—Granny always understands.” The boy nodded, soaking up every word. Granny—kind. Granny—understands. But mum… – “You know,” Val would drop her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “some mums just can’t be gentle. It’s not your fault, Arty. You’re a wonderful boy. It’s just that your mum… well, she’s not a very good one.” Arty hugged his grandmother. Something cold and strange crept into his chest when he thought of his mum. A month later, Anna noticed her son had changed. – “Arty, sweetheart, come here, let me hug you.” He pulled away. – “Don’t want to.” – “Why?” – “Just don’t.” He ran to Gran. Anna was left standing in the nursery with empty arms. Something had broken, and she couldn’t work out when or why. Val watched from the hall, lips curling in satisfaction. – “Arty,” Anna tried again that evening,, “are you cross with me?” – “No.” – “Then why won’t you play with me?” The look he gave her was distant, unfamiliar. – “I want to be with Gran.” Anna let him go, a dull ache spreading in her chest. – “Max, I don’t recognise Arty anymore,” she told her husband late that night. “He avoids me. It never used to be like this.” – “Come on, love. Kids change all the time. Today it’s one thing, tomorrow another.” – “No, it’s not that. The way he looks at me—it’s like I’ve done something awful.” – “You’re exaggerating. Mum looks after him while we’re at work. He’s just attached.” Anna wanted to argue, but stopped. Max was already lost in his phone. Meanwhile Val, tucking her grandson up when his parents worked late, kept up the narrative: – “Your mum loves you—in her own, cold, strict way. Not all mums can be kind. But Granny will never hurt you. Not like mum.” Arty fell asleep thinking about her words. Each morning, he eyed his mother a little more warily. Now he openly showed his preference. – “Arty, shall we go for a walk?” Anna reached out her hand. – “I want to go with Gran.” – “Arty…” – “With Gran!” Val took his hand with gusto. – “Don’t pester him. See? He doesn’t want you. Come, Arty, let’s get you an ice cream.” They left. Anna watched them go, something heavy pressing against her heart. Her own son turning away from her. Running to Gran. And she didn’t know how or why. That evening, Max found Anna in the kitchen clutching a cold mug of tea, staring at the wall. – “I’ll talk to him, I promise.” She nodded, too tired for words. Max sat beside his son in the nursery. – “Arty, tell dad—why don’t you want to be with mum?” The boy looked down. – “Just because.” – “That’s not an answer. Did mum upset you?” – “No…” – “Then what is it?” Silence. Six-year-olds can’t explain what they barely understand. Gran said mum was mean, cold. So it must be true. Gran doesn’t lie. Max left, no closer to an answer. Val, meanwhile, planned her next move. Anna was really drooping now—any day, she’d pack up and leave. Max deserved better. A real wife, not this ice queen. – “Arty,” Val caught him in the hallway while Anna showered the next day, “you know Granny loves you best in the world, don’t you?” – “I know.” – “And mum… well, mum’s not great, is she? Never hugs, never cuddles, always cross… Poor boy.” She didn’t hear footsteps behind her. – “Mum.” Val turned. Max stood in the doorway, white-faced. – “Arty, go to your room,” he said quietly, and the boy scuttled away. – “Max, I was just—” – “I heard everything.” Silence. – “Did you deliberately turn him against Anna? All this time?” – “I’m looking out for my grandson! She’s like a warden with him!” – “Are you even listening to yourself?” Val backed away. Her son’s face was unreadable, but the disgust was plain. – “Max, please—” – “No. You listen.” He stepped closer. “You sabotaged my son’s relationship with his own mother. My wife. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” – “I was trying to help!” – “Help? Arty is terrified of his own mother! Anna’s beside herself! That’s helping?” Val lifted her chin. – “She’s just all wrong for you, Max. Cold. Earns more than you. Uncaring…” – “Enough!” His shout snapped them both to attention. Max breathed hard. – “Pack your things. Tonight.” – “You’re throwing me out?” – “I’m protecting my family. From you.” Val started to protest—but the look in Max’s eyes said it was final. No more second chances. Within an hour, she was gone. No goodbyes. Max found Anna in their bedroom. – “I know now why Arty changed.” She looked up, red-eyed. – “It was my mum. She told him you were mean. That you didn’t love him properly. She’s been turning him against you all this time.” Anna froze. Then exhaled slowly. – “I thought I was losing my mind. Thought I was just a bad mum.” Max sat beside her and pulled her in. – “You’re a wonderful mum. I don’t know what got into mine. But she’ll never come near Arty again.” The next weeks were hard. Arty asked for his gran, confused by her absence. His parents talked with him—softly, patiently. – “Sweetheart,” Anna would say, stroking his hair, “what Granny said about me wasn’t true. I love you. More than anything.” He looked at her warily. – “But you’re mean.” – “Not mean—just strict. Because I want you to become a good person. Sometimes, being firm is love too, you know?” He thought long and hard. – “Can you hug me?” Anna hugged him so tightly he burst into giggles… Day by day, the old Arty returned. The one who ran to show his mum a drawing. The one who fell asleep to her lullabies. Max watched them playing in the sitting room, thinking of his mother. She called a few times. He didn’t answer. Val was alone now. No grandson. No son. She’d only wanted to protect Max from the wrong woman—and ended up losing both. Anna laid her head on Max’s shoulder. – “Thank you for fixing it all.” – “Sorry I didn’t see it sooner.” Arty dashed over and clambered onto his dad’s knee. – “Mum! Dad! Can we go to the zoo tomorrow?” It turned out, life was getting back on track…