The Man with a Trailer

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

Really, youve chosen that one, havent you? Emily said, her tone edged with disapproval as she addressed her sister. Has every single eligible gentleman in England vanished?

Its not that hes single, Mabel retorted. Arthur isnt married.

Of course Im not talking about his marital status! He already has a little child, so hes far from free. Hes taken on a freestanding housekeeper and a nanny, and youre still raising your eyebrows!

We love each other, Mabel whispered.

You may love him, but

Emily, stop it, Mabel snapped, unusually stern. If you dont like it, thats your problem. Dont meddle where youre not wanted.

Emily knew when to pull back, especially in quarrels with the sister she loved dearly a love that was, indeed, mutual.

Soon enough she realised that Arthur was a genuinely good man kind, caring, calm, and clearly in love with Mabel. She held no secret hopes for him, nor for little Anny, who quickly began calling Emily Mum.

Truth be told, Emily grew attached to the sprightly, sweet little girl and welcomed her as a niece, especially since Emily herself had no children yet.

The sisters lived in adjoining blocks and often dropped in on each other, keeping daily contact by telephone.

And, of course, Emily was at Mabels side when, four years after their wedding, Arthur met his untimely end.

At first Emily kept quiet, watching her sister struggle, mechanically tending to the house, going to work, and cradling Anny with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

Its a blessing I already adopted her, Mabel sighed when the two sisters were alone. If I still had to fight for custody, I dont think Id survive.

Its right, Emily replied, her eyes soft with pity for Mabel. She deserves the best. Why must she suffer?

That injustice gnawed at Emily, and a year after Arthurs death she resumed her attempts to find Mabel a new companion.

Life goes on. Raising a child alone is a heavy burden. You must understand that. And why cling to one man forever?

Were fine, Anny and I, Mabel brushed aside.

Yet when Emily begged her to attend a friends birthday, promising a most interesting gentleman, Mabel finally yielded.

The interesting gentleman turned out to be a loquacious, sociable manager named Peter Hughes, a few years older than Mabel.

My head aches from his endless chatter, Mabel confessed later.

Thats nerves, Emily laughed. Peter isnt usually that talkative, but he recently inherited a modest sum. Now he has a flat, a car and earns a decent wage.

He did have an exwife and a son, but at his age, could anyone expect a completely unattached man?

Peter never truly won Mabel over, yet she agreed to meet him a few times. Their dates were scarce, as Peter spent much of his time on business trips. Moreover, he disliked that Mabel worried more about Anny than about spending time with him.

Three months later, Mabel overheard a phone conversation that led her to break off with Peter.

He isnt traveling for work, she told Emily. He lives with his exwife and their daughter. After learning about the inheritance, his former spouse turned from anger to kindness. I cant see why he wants me.

Emily sighed. They divorced two years ago I never imagined hed behave like that. Never mind, well find someone better.

Could you stop playing matchmaker? All I get are troubles, Mabel replied.

I promise next time Ill be more careful with my choices, Emily assured.

Mabel didnt argue further but firmly refused any more invitations to meet strangers online or to attend social gatherings.

A mishap with her kitchen tap soon flooded the flat, spilling into the neighbours property before she managed to shut off the water. A plumber from the blocks management arrived swiftly.

The lean, serious man who introduced himself as Alfred Turner, slightly older than Mabel, declared the tap would need replacing and even fetched a new one himself. He refused any payment or even a chat over tea.

Wheres your daughter? he asked suddenly, then, a little embarrassed, added, Id like to give her something He pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket.

Why? Mabel jumped back, fear flashing across her face.

She recalled spotting Alfred a few times in the courtyard, always watching Anny a little too intently.

Please go, she said firmly. Thank you for the work, but thats all.

Dont be frightened, Alfred replied gently. Your child is a sweet little thing; I just wanted to bring her a little treat.

She told him to leave. He sighed heavily, placed the chocolate on the counter, muttered, Its harmless, and walked out. Anny continued playing in her room, oblivious to the encounter.

The next day Alfred waited for her in the stairwell, a modest bouquet in hand.

Please forgive me, he said, voice wavering. I never meant to scare you. I I find you appealing, and your daughter as well.

He offered the flowers; Mabel took them reflexively. Though a spark of curiosity flickered within her, she remained wary of his sudden confession.

From then on Alfred courted her in his own odd way bringing sweets and flowers for both mother and daughter, repairing everything in their flat, and the three of them even took walks together.

Within a month their relationship deepened, though Mabel kept the matter hidden from Emily.

Fortunately Emily was occupied with her husbands return from a lengthy voyage, and most of her communication with Mabel remained by phone. Yet one afternoon she turned up unannounced at Mabels doorstep.

And who is this? How long have you known each other? Where did he come from? she peppered Mabel with questions as Alfred departed.

Always so inquisitive, Em, Mabel teased, smiling. Hes my fiancé, or at least thats what I hope.

She went on to explain how they met. He worked up North, then decided to return. Hes lost his mother, who passed away two years ago.

Emily pressed, And what did he do up North that now hes a plumber?

Mum, stop, Mabel retorted. He spent years toiling in harsh conditions; doesnt he deserve a bit of rest? He treats me and Anny wonderfully thats what matters.

Still sounds shady, Emily persisted. Are you sure he isnt married with five children?

Im certain. Ive seen his passport.

Alright then.

A week later Emily burst in, eyes alight. I told you Alfred wasnt simple! Did you know hed been in prison?

No for what?

Who cares? Stay away from that convict!

Mabel had already fallen for Alfred, and she decided to ask him directly.

Yes, he sighed. Ive never found the courage to tell you the truth. Theres a lot I need to confess

Nows the time, Emily urged.

I was indeed working on a construction site up North, and because of my negligence an accident happened, Alfred began. Thankfully everyone survived, but I was sentenced. I was released on licence after two years.

Mabel stared silently, sensing there was more.

And, Alfred hesitated, then continued, Anny is my daughter. Her mother was my former partner. I was drinking and partying hard, and when I learned she was pregnant I fled north.

He spoke of continued drinking up there and the mishap that followed. I had time to think, he chuckled, and realised that my child is the most important thing in my life, not the endless revelry.

Did you come back to claim my daughter? Mabel asked, her voice trembling with anger.

Its not that simple, Alfred exhaled deeply. I knew where her mother lived with her husband. I didnt expect her to have such a good stepmother

Mabel stood up. Leave.

Alfreds eyes welled. Please, Mabel, wait! I truly love you. No one else matters to me but you and Anny. Ill do anything for you both!

That day Mabel turned him away, but later she forgave him. They married three months later, Alfred secured a steady job, and two years after that they welcomed a son of their own.

I Gave My Daughter-in-Law the Family Heirloom Ring—A Week Later, I Spotted It for Sale in the Pawnbroker’s Window “Wear it carefully, love, it’s not just gold—it’s our family’s history,” said Mrs. Williams as she gently, like passing a fragile vase, handed the velvet box to her daughter-in-law. “It was my great-grandmother’s ring. It survived the war, rationing, evacuation. Mum always told me that in 1946 someone offered her a sack of flour for it, but she wouldn’t part with it. She said you can’t swap memories for bread—you just get through the lean times.” Alison, a fashionable young woman with immaculate nails and always perfectly styled hair, opened the box. The large ruby, set in an antique gold filigree, caught a dull glimmer in the chandelier’s light. The ring was heavy and imposing—not at all the kind of dainty jewellery young people wear now. “Wow… it’s… substantial,” Alison said, turning it over in her hands. “You don’t see things like this nowadays. Very retro.” “It’s not retro, Alison. It’s vintage. Antique,” her husband Simon, Mrs. Williams’s son, corrected gently. Relaxed after Sunday dinner, he watched the women with a smile. “Mum, are you sure? You’ve always said it has to stay in the family.” “Well, Alison is family now,” Mrs. Williams replied warmly, though her heart ached. The decision had been hard. The ring was a talisman—a link to generations past. But she saw how much Simon loved his wife, how hard he tried for her. So she decided to make a gesture of goodwill. Let Alison feel truly accepted, not an outsider. “Three years married and not a cross word between you. It’s time. I want this ring to bless your marriage as it did my parents’.” Alison tried on the ring. It was a bit loose on her ring finger, spinning freely. “It’s lovely,” she said, though Mrs. Williams didn’t hear the awe she’d hoped for—just polite gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Williams. I’ll… take care of it. Might need to have it resized, though—otherwise I’ll lose it.” “Be careful who does it,” the older woman warned instantly. “It’s old, Victorian even—jewellers say that sort of gold is tricky to work with, it’s soft. And the stone needs to be protected. Best to wear it on your middle finger if that fits.” “I’ll get it sorted,” Alison said, shutting the box and putting it by her handbag. “Simon, time to go, early start tomorrow. Got to nip to the bank before work—the car payment’s due.” Mrs. Williams watched their new SUV pull away, feeling an odd emptiness, as if she’d handed away part of her spirit with the ring. But she brushed away the gloomy thoughts. One must look forward. The younger generation has its own tastes, its own values—but family memories are powerful; they’ll endure. The week passed in a blur. Mrs. Williams, not one to sit about in retirement, was rarely home—doctor’s appointments, trips to the market, walks in the park. City life kept her on the move. That Tuesday, the weather turned foul: a damp, cold drizzle that umbrellas were helpless against. On her way back from the pharmacy, she took a shortcut through an alley lined with little shops, shoe repairs, and a pawnshop with its garish yellow sign: “PAWN. GOLD. TECH. OPEN 24 HOURS.” She usually hurried past such places with distaste—she imagined they reeked of other people’s failures. But for some reason, she slowed. She glanced at the window display. There were mobile phones, then rows of jewellery: slim chains, crosses, wedding rings—all someone’s shattered hopes. Suddenly, Mrs. Williams’s heart missed a beat. There in the centre, atop a velvet stand—it was there. No mistake. There was no other like it. The dark red ruby seemed to glare at her from behind the thick glass. The unique setting—the gold petals embracing the stone, the tiny scratch inside the band, known only to her. “It can’t be…” she whispered through trembling lips, hand clutching her chest. Perhaps she was mistaken? A copy? Fakes are common nowadays… She pushed open the heavy door. A musty, stale air hit her. Behind bulletproof glass, a bored young man scrolled through his phone. “Good afternoon,” she managed, voice quivering. He looked up lazily. “Yeah? Buying or selling?” “I… I’d like to see that ring. The ruby one. In the window.” With a sigh, he got up, unlocked the display, and set the ring in a tray beneath the glass. “Vintage piece,” he muttered. “Heavy, 18-carat, proper antique gold. Checked the stone—real. Price on the tag.” Her hands shook as she picked it up. Instantly, her fingers recognised its warmth and weight. She turned it over—there was the scratch. The faded maker’s mark, worn down by decades, that she’d stared at as a child. It was her ring. The very one she’d given Alison just a week before. Her vision blurred. Her throat tightened. Only a week… her gran had gone hungry in the war rather than sell this ring. And now… “How much?” she croaked. “Three thousand pounds,” he replied without interest. “That’s scrap value plus a little for the stone. It’s a niche item, odd size.” Three thousand pounds. The price of three generations’ memories. She knew it would fetch far more at a proper antiques dealer—here, it was just metal. “I’ll take it,” she said, voice firm. “Got ID?” He perked up then. “Yes. And my bank card.” It was her ‘rainy day’ money, saved for emergencies. Well, the rainy day had come, though not as she’d imagined. While the young man filled in paperwork, she clutched the counter to keep from collapsing. Thoughts raced through her mind—had there been a disaster? Illness? An accident? Why hadn’t they asked for help? She’d have given them anything—why sneak about, like thieves? She left with the ring buried in her bag, but instead of relief, felt stung with deep betrayal. The rain grew heavier but she didn’t notice. She walked home, lost in thought. Should she call and demand an explanation? No. They’d have an excuse. A lie. She needed to see their faces. For two days, Mrs. Williams stayed in, claiming ill health. She took her heart pills and stroked the ring, as though apologising for its rough ordeal. On Friday, she rang Simon. “Simon, love, how are you both? I miss you. Pop over for lunch on Saturday? I’ll make some of that borscht and those cabbage pies you love.” “Hi Mum! Of course. Alison was just saying she missed you. Two o’clock okay?” “Perfect, love. I’ll be waiting.” The night before, Mrs. Williams barely slept, rehearsing the conversation, none of her words seeming strong enough for such a betrayal. Or was it just Alison? Did Simon know? They arrived punctually, smiling, with a bunch of chrysanthemums and cake. Alison in a new dress, chatting about sales and traffic. She kissed her mother-in-law, who barely managed not to recoil. “Oh, it smells wonderful!” Alison exclaimed, breezing to the kitchen. “You’re a culinary genius, Mrs. Williams—we rely on takeaways, too tired to cook. Endless work, reports…” They sat down. Lunch was just small talk—building repairs, petrol prices. Mrs. Williams watched every move, especially Alison’s hands—slender gold bands, modern rings, but not the family one. “Alison,” Mrs. Williams began as she poured the tea, “why aren’t you wearing the ring I gave you? Doesn’t it go with your dress?” Alison froze, cup in hand. Barely a blink, but enough for the attentive. Simon stopped chewing and glanced at his wife. “Oh, Mrs. Williams,” Alison forced a smile, but her eyes darted. “It’s in my jewellery box. Still a bit loose—I was worried I’d lose it. We meant to take it to the jeweller this week, just so busy with work. Simon’s been putting in late nights too!” “Yeah, Mum,” Simon echoed. “We’ll sort it soon. It’s safe at home.” “At home. In the box,” Mrs. Williams echoed softly. “Yes, where else?” Alison’s tone turned tight. “Honestly, don’t worry—it’s just a ring. It’s not going anywhere.” Mrs. Williams stood, collected a velvet box from a sideboard—her old hiding place—brought it to the table and opened it. The ruby flashed, like a drop of blood. Alison’s face flushed, then went pale. She opened her mouth but no sound came. Simon choked on his tea, coughing as if he’d seen a ghost. “This…” he finally managed. “Mum… what… where did you get this?” “The pawnshop on Queen’s Road,” she replied calmly, sinking back into her chair. The storm inside had turned to something cold and hard. “Walked past on Tuesday. There it was, waiting for me. Three thousand pounds. That’s the price of memory now, is it?” Alison stared at the tablecloth. “We—we meant to buy it back,” she mumbled. “Honestly. Next month. Out of our pay.” “Next month?” Mrs. Williams repeated. “And if someone else bought it? Melted it down, picked out the stone? Do you understand what you’ve done?” “Oh, don’t make such a drama!” Alison exploded. Her eyes were wet and furious. “It’s just a stupid old ring! We needed the money—car payments are killing us, Simon’s bonus was slashed! We didn’t want to ask you—you’d just lecture us again about not living within our means!” “Alison, just stop,” Simon whispered, but she charged on. “No, let me talk! You hoard your gold like Scrooge! We need to live! We wanted a holiday, to buy clothes—we thought we’d pawn the ring for a bit, tide ourselves over, get it back later. You’d never have known!” “You’d never have known,” Mrs. Williams repeated. “So that’s what matters—to keep me in the dark? And what about trust? I gave you my most precious heirloom.” “People matter more than things!” Alison shot back. “If we’d sold it, so what? The world wouldn’t end.” Mrs. Williams turned to Simon, who sat hunched, face in his hands. He was ashamed. But he said nothing. He’d let his wife speak for them both; justified their betrayal as ‘need’. “Simon,” she said quietly. “Did you know?” He nodded, not looking up. “I knew, Mum. I’m sorry. We were short for the payment. Alison suggested… said it was only temporary. I didn’t want to, but…” “… but you agreed,” his mother finished. “Because it was easier. Because your wife said so. Because a memory can’t pay off a car loan.” She took the box and clutched it tightly. “Well, my dears,” her voice was steely. “You’re right. I’m old-fashioned. I don’t understand how anyone could betray their family heirloom for a car they can’t afford. Or sit eating my pies and lie to my face.” “We’ll repay you for the ring,” Alison muttered, dabbing her nose. “The full three thousand.” “You don’t need to,” Mrs. Williams said coldly. “You already have. You’ve shown me exactly how much I matter to you.” She strode to the door. “Leave.” “Mum, come on—” Simon reached for her hand. “No, Simon. Family don’t do this. Family would give the shirt off their back before pawning away their heritage. Go. I need some time alone.” “Fine!” Alison grabbed her bag and stormed out. “So dramatic, honestly! A meltdown over a piece of old jewellery. C’mon, Simon, we’re not welcome. Let her stew in it!” They left; the door slammed behind them, leaving only Alison’s cloying perfume, now sickly to the older woman. She cleared the table, packed away the untouched cake, and did the washing up. Each chore was mechanical, a lifeline. Then she took out the ring. “Well, my dear,” she whispered, slipping it onto her finger. “Back where you belong. I guess you were never meant for them…” That night, she gazed at the ruby in her lamp’s glow. It shone with a deep, wise light: ‘Don’t grieve. People come and go, but what truly matters endures.’ Her relationship with Simon and Alison didn’t entirely break, but called less often, and something had cracked—like a chipped cup: still usable, but never again for special occasions. Alison was chilly, acting the wronged party at every family gathering. The ring was never spoken of again. Mrs. Williams wore it daily now. Months later, the neighbour—retired teacher, Mrs. Clark—spotted the ring on her finger. “That’s some ring, dear—stunning!” “It was my mother’s,” Mrs. Williams smiled, stroking the gold. “I tried to pass it on—but decided it was too soon. Not everyone’s ready for true responsibility.” “Quite right,” Mrs. Clark nodded. “Some things must be handed to those who know their value.” Mrs. Williams looked at the sky. “Maybe one day I’ll have a granddaughter. And then—maybe she’ll be ready. For now, it stays with me. It’s safer here.” She understood, finally: love can’t be bought with gifts, and respect isn’t earned by indulging others’ whims. The ring came back to her to open her eyes. And if the truth was bitter, it was better than sweet lies. Life went on. Mrs. Williams signed up for computer classes, went to the theatre with friends, and stopped scrimping to ‘help the kids’. She deserved a treat too. And the ring on her finger was a daily reminder—she had a strength no one could break. As long as she held onto her family’s story, she was never alone.

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.