JUST IN CASE: When Vera Watches a Crying Colleague, Indifference, Office Gossip, and the Truth About Her “Perfect” Husband Vasily (the Cat) Prompt Every Woman to Reflect on Life, Love, and the Choices We Make

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 min

JUST IN CASE

Claire glanced at her weeping colleague, then coolly turned back to her computer and started typing rapidly.
“You’re heartless, Claire,” came the voice of Olivia, the head of the department.
“Me? Where did you get that idea?”
“Well, just because your own life is all sunshine and rainbows, doesn’t mean everyone else’s is. Can’t you see the poor girl’s falling apart? You could at least spare a bit of sympathy, or pass on some advice, since you seem to have it all sorted.”
“Me? Give advice? To her? I doubt our dear Rosie would appreciate it. You know, I tried, years back, when she used to come in with black eyessaid she kept bumping into doors, must have been extra dark out. You weren’t here then.
“And, no, it wasnt her bloke battering her; she actually tripped on her own. Then once he’d buggered off into the sunset, somehow Rosie stopped showing up with bruises. He was the third one to bolt, by the way.
“That time, I thought I’d try supporting a coworker, offer some wisdom, as it were. Ended up the baddie, of course. Wasnt long before other colleagues clued me in: waste of time. Rosie knows best. In the end, I supposedly ruined her chance at happiness.
“She was doing love potions back thenconsulting fortune-tellers, the whole lot. Nowadays, shes modernised herself, goes in for therapy. Trying to work through her traumas. Doesn’t realise shes living the same story, just changing the names.
“So no, I wont be rushing over with tissues, or acting all sorry.”

“Still, Claire, you can’t just carry on like that,” Olivia insisted.

At lunch, everyone huddled around the same table. The entire conversation revolved around Rosie’s exthe snake and the liar. Claire ate quietly, poured herself a coffee, retreated to a corner, and attempted to clear her head by scrolling through her phone.

“Claire,” chirped jovial, round-faced Sophie as she perched beside her. Always a ray of sunshine, but today she seemed clouded. “Do you honestly not feel a shred of sympathy for Rosie?”
“Sophie, what do you all want from me?”
“Oh, leave her to it,” piped up passing Evelyn. “Shes always like this. Got her precious George at home, living the life of Riley, she cant possibly understand what its like to be left high and dry with a kid, no help from anywhere. Good luck getting maintenance out of that deadbeat.”

“No need to have a kid, was there?” That was Mrs. Thompsonoldest among the lot, known as Auntie Barbara behind her back. “Claires got a point. Rosies been here in tears who knows how many times, he gave her grief while she was pregnant, and before thatwell, pfft.”

The cluster of women formed a protective circle around Rosie, who continued wiping her eyes while the advice flowed.
Strong, independent Rosie had decided to show her true colours. Eventually, tired of crying, she summoned her mum from the countryside to help with her son and that ungrateful ex. Rosie slowly pulled herself togetherfringe trimmed, thick eyebrows inked onto her forehead, false eyelashes plastered on, almost went for a nose ring but was talked out of it by the entire office.
Off she went.
“Its all right, Rosie, hell be in bits soon enough. Hell come crawling back, tears and all,” the other ladies cheered.

“He wont cry,” muttered Claire quietly, more to herself, but the slightly tipsy women caught her words.
“What dyou mean, he wont?”
“I mean, he wont. He wont regret it either. And Rosie? Shell find someone identical, today or tomorrow.”
“Easy for you to say. Your Georges probably not like that…”
“Not like that… My George?” Claire breathed, half-laughing. “The best man in the world. Doesnt raise a hand, doesnt chase after skirts, loves me to bits.”
“Oh, come on, theyre all the same.”
“Careful, Claire. One of us might nab him yet.”
“Nah, he wont stray.”
“I wouldnt be so sure.”
“Well, try.”

Wine loosened tongues. The bickering began, growling like lionesses.
“Lets all go to yours. See if George can resist such radiant charms. Bet youre too scared to invite usworried one of usll sweep your golden George off his feet.”
“Come round, then.”
“Right, girls, off to Claires. Up for the challenge, Auntie Barbara?”
“No, darlings, Michaels waiting for me at home. You lot go, have a lark,” Barbara laughed.

The gang descended on Claires house, giggling in the kitchen and bustling about.
“Right, lets whip something up. George still at work, Claire?”
“Should be back soon. Dont go all out, hes fussy and doesnt eat much, but yes, you’re righthell be here any minute.”

After the initial commotion, the mood mellowed. Everyone remembered their chores, said their goodbyes, and leftapart from Rosie, Olivia, and Sophie. The trio sat in Claires cosy kitchen, sipping tea, chatting nervously, unsure what to expect from the mysterious George.
They started gathering their things to go when someone arrived.
“George, Georgie, sweetheart, youre home!” Claires voice rang from the hallway with a sugary affection.
The women immediately shrank, uneasy and awkward as a tall, handsome young man strolled in.
So thats it, they realised: George is quite a bit younger than Claire.
“Everyone, this is my son, Daniel,” Claire announced cheerfully.
(‘Daniel? How Daniel? What happened to George?’ the womens eyes silently screamed.)
“My son, Danny. So, George, Danny? How was he today?”
“Yeah, Mum, hes fine. Hell be up on his feet in no time. Just make sure he leaves his bandages alone…”
Blushing furiously, the women stammered,
“Wewellwe should be heading off.”
“Wait, you havent met George,” Claire interrupted, “but hush, hes just had surgery. Danny and Eleanor took him to the vet, I was at workhe needed the snip, the cheeky devil kept spraying the curtains… Come have a look.”
There, curled contentedly, was a sleeping tabby.
The ladies rushed out, stifling their laughter.
“Claire, thats a cat!”
“Of course, what did you expect?”
“But, what about your husband George?”
“Oh, I dont have one. You lot dreamed up the husband business yourselves. I once said I had a smashing fella at home, Georgebut you never let me finish, added the rest yourselves, and believed it.
“I married young, first love and all that, knocked everything on the head before I could finish university, had Danny. Sweated through three miserable years and split up. My parents helped loads.
“Second time, nearly thirtyI thought Id hit the jackpot. He had grand plans for our future: wanted a son, a daughter, a complete set. Danny, hed send off to a boarding schoolor to my mums at a pinch. In the end, I sent hubby back to his mum. He argued for ages, but his own mother blamed me for not taking on her sons child, even though she herself remarried and Dan was raised well enough by his stepdad.
“Dan and I went it alone for years; by my third go, I knew all the oddsI was hardly the toast of the town anymore. Well, third time lucky, youd hope. Turned out, not so much: he gave me a black eye just to prove he loved me, jealous fool that he was. But Danny had been taking judo since he was six, and Id always be his training partner at home. Picked up a bit myselfgave my own Othello the heave-ho when he tried it on. Decided then: no more men.
“Dan got married, house grew quiet, so I got myself George. Hes idealwatches films with me, comes along on trips, never causes drama, no need to report in, nobody owes anyone anything. Sometimes I cook a nice dinner, invite him round. He heads home content and thats that.
“At first, Danny didnt get itasked why we didnt live together. But what for? Were adults, got our habits. Not like some whove been joined at the hip for thirty years, thinking in tandem, speaking as one. Thats not me. Why bother forcing myself to fit some picture just to brag about being married?
“George and I manage perfectly well together.
“Isnt that right, my darling?” She stroked the sleepy cats little head. “Told you, if you kept marking the curtains, youd lose your special bits.”
The women left in silence, minds working overtimeespecially Rosie.

But Rosie could never be Claire. A month on, she was chirping about a new love, receiving extravagant bouquets at work.
Claire and Auntie Barbara just exchanged quiet smiles.

“So, hows Michael? Hows his paw?”
“Hes fine, Claire love, just pricked it on something out walking, but its healed nicelylike a dog, bless him,” chuckled Barbara. “My grandkids keep saying I ought to show him off at Crufts, but Id never put him through that. Hes happy just as he is… And Rosie seems to be back on her feet now, I see.”
“Yes, Auntie Barbara, some people get pets, others collect husbands…”
“Thats life. Maybe this time shes lucky?”
“Lets hope so.”

Rosie walked by.
“What you gossiping about?”
“You, Rosiehoping it works out for you this time.”
“Girls, I know what it looks like, but honestly, I just cant do alone.”
“No need to explain to us, love. Everyones got to live their own way…”

“Claire…” Rosie called, catching sight of her as she headed to the car park.
“If you get the chance, can you give me some advice on keeping cats? Which is bettera tom or a queen?”
“Go on, youve got people waiting for you… If you need help, well sort it,” Claire laughed.
“Im just asking, just in case…”

Get Out of My Flat! – Said Mum — “Get out,” said Mum in a perfectly calm voice. Arina smirked and leaned back in her chair—she was certain her mother was talking to her friend. — “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. — “Lena, did you see the post?” Her friend burst into the kitchen without even taking off her coat. “Arisha’s had the baby! Seven pounds six, twenty-one inches.” A little copy of his dad, the same snub nose. I’ve already been round every shop, bought loads of babygrows. Why the long face? — “Congratulations, Nat. I’m happy for you,” Lena got up to pour her friend some tea. “Sit down—at least take your coat off!” — “Oh, I can’t stay long,” Natasha perched on the edge of the chair. “So much to do, so much to do. Our Arina’s done it all herself—shoulders to the wheel.” Her husband’s a diamond, got themselves a mortgage, still working on the flat. I’m so proud of my girl. Raised her right, I did! Lena silently set a cup before her friend. Right… if only Natasha knew… *** Exactly two years earlier, Arina—Natasha’s daughter—had turned up at Lena’s door without calling, eyes swollen from crying, hands shaking. “Auntie Lena, please, just don’t tell my mum. I’m begging you! If she finds out, she’ll have a heart attack,” Arina sobbed, twisting a damp tissue. “Arina, calm down. Tell me properly—what happened?” Lena had been genuinely alarmed. “I… I was at work…” Arina gulped. “Someone’s money went missing from a colleague’s bag. Fifty grand.” And the cameras caught me going into the office when no one else was there. I didn’t take it, Auntie Lena! I swear! But they said: either I return fifty grand by tomorrow lunchtime, or they go to the police. They’ve got a ‘witness’ who supposedly saw me putting the wallet away. It’s a setup, Auntie Lena! But who’s going to believe me? “Fifty grand?” Lena frowned. “Why didn’t you go to your dad?” “I tried!” Arina broke into fresh sobs. “He said it was my own fault, not a penny from him if I’m that stupid. Told me: ‘Go to the police, let them teach you a lesson.’ He wouldn’t even let me in, shouted at me through the door. Auntie Lena, there’s no one else. I’ve got twenty grand saved up, but I’m thirty short.” “What about Natasha? She’s your mother.” “No! Mum would kill me. She always says I embarrass her—and now, theft… She works at a school, everyone knows her. Please, can you lend me thirty grand? I swear I’ll pay you back, two or three grand a week. I’ve already found a new job! Please, Auntie Lena!” Lena’s heart ached for the girl. Twenty, just starting her life, and now this stain. Dad had turned his back, and if her mother found out, she really would tear her head off. “Who in life doesn’t make mistakes?” Lena thought at the time. Arina wouldn’t stop crying. “All right,” she said. “I have the money. Was saving up for dental work, but my teeth can wait.” Just promise it’s the last time. And I won’t tell your mum, since you’re so afraid. “Thank you! Thank you, Auntie Lena! You’ve saved my life!” Arina flung her arms round her aunt. The first week, Arina did bring two grand. She came round beaming: everything sorted, no police trouble, the new job was fine. But after that… she stopped replying to messages. A month, then two, three. Lena still saw her at Natasha’s family gatherings, but Arina acted like they were barely acquainted—just a cold “hello.” Lena didn’t push. Thought, “She’s young, embarrassed, so she’s keeping her distance.” Decided thirty grand wasn’t worth ruining a friendship with Natasha. Wrote off the debt, let it go. *** “Are you even listening?” Natasha waved a hand in front of Lena’s face. “What are you thinking about?” “Oh, nothing,” Lena shook her head. “Just my own stuff.” “Listen,” Natasha lowered her voice. “I ran into Ksenia—remember, our old neighbour? She came up to me in the shop yesterday. Seemed odd. Started asking about Arisha, how she’s doing, whether she’d paid off any debts. I couldn’t figure it out. I told her Arinka’s independent, earning her own way. Ksenia just gave me a funny look and left. You wouldn’t know—did Arisha ever borrow money from her?” Lena felt herself tense inside. “No idea, Nat—maybe something small.” “All right, I must dash. Need to swing by the chemist,” Natasha stood up, kissed Lena on the cheek, and breezed out. That evening Lena couldn’t take it anymore. She found Ksenia’s number and called. “Ksenia, hi, it’s Lena. Did you see Natasha today? What debts did you ask her about?” There was a heavy sigh on the line. “Oh, Lena… I thought you’d know. You’re closer to them than any of us. Two years ago, Arinka turned up in tears, said she’d been accused of theft at work. They told her—pay back thirty grand or it’s prison. Begged me not to say a word to her mum, cried her heart out. And me, fool that I am, I gave her the money. She promised to pay me back in a month… and vanished.” Lena gripped the phone. “Thirty grand?” she repeated. “Exactly thirty?” “Yes. Said it was just what she was short by. In the end, she sent me a fiver six months later and that was it. But I heard from Vera in number three that Arina hit her up with the same story. And Vera gave her forty grand. And old Mrs Galina, their former teacher, she ‘saved’ Arisha from jail as well—gave her fifty. “Hang on…” Lena sat down hard on the sofa. “You’re saying she asked everyone for the same amount, with the same story?” “So it seems,” Ksenia’s voice hardened. “The girl just milked all Natasha’s pals for thirty, forty grand apiece. Made up a story, tugged at the heartstrings. We all love Natasha, didn’t want to upset her. And Arinka, well, she must have blown the lot—in a month there were photos of her in Turkey on Facebook. “I gave her thirty as well,” Lena said quietly. “So that makes… what? Five, six of us at least. That’s a racket, Lena. That’s not ‘youthful mistake’—it’s good old fashioned fraud. And Natasha doesn’t have a clue. She goes round bragging about her darling daughter, while her darling’s a thief!” Lena put the phone down. Her ears buzzed. She wasn’t bothered about the money—she’d said goodbye to that ages ago. What sickened her was how coldly and cunningly a twenty-year-old had swindled adult women, exploiting their trust. *** The next day, Lena knocked on Natasha’s. No intention of a row—she just wanted to look Arina in the eye. Arina had just come back from hospital, and, while her mortgaged flat was being renovated, she was staying at her mum’s. “Oh, Auntie Lena!” Arina forced a smile. “Come in. Tea?” Natasha was busy at the stove. “Lena, take a seat. Why didn’t you ring first?” Lena sat down opposite Arina. “Arina,” she began calmly, “I saw Ksenia. And Vera. And Mrs Galina. Last night we started a sort of ‘support group for the conned’.” Arina froze, went pale, glanced at her mother’s turned back. “What are you on about, Lena?” Natasha turned round. “Oh, Arina knows very well,” Lena kept her eyes on the girl. “Remember that nasty business two years ago, Arina? When you asked me for thirty grand? And Ksenia for thirty. Vera for forty. Mrs Galina for fifty. All of us ‘rescuing’ you from prison. Each of us thinking she was the only one who knew your dark little secret. The kettle in Natasha’s hand shook, boiling water hissed onto the hob. “What fifty grand?” Natasha set the kettle down, slow and steady. “Arina? What’s going on? Did you borrow money from my friends? From Mrs Galina?” “Mum… it’s not what it looks like… I… I paid most of it back…” “You didn’t pay a penny, Arina,” Lena snapped. “You handed me two grand for show, then disappeared. You milked us for nearly two hundred grand with that fake story. We kept quiet for your mum’s sake. But now I see we should have pitied ourselves, not you.” “Arina, look at me,” Natasha demanded. “You conned my friends out of cash? You made up the theft so you could rob people who’ve visited our home?!” “Mum, I needed money to move out!” screamed Arina. “You wouldn’t give me anything! Dad wouldn’t give me a penny, and I had to make a start! So what? They’re loaded—I didn’t take their last penny!” Lena felt sick. So that’s how it was… “That’s that. Natasha, I’m sorry to dump this on you, but I can’t stay quiet. I won’t let her treat us all like idiots!” Natasha gripped the table, trembling. “Get out,” she said, perfectly calmly. Arina smirked and leaned back, sure her mum meant Lena. “Get out of my flat!” Natasha snapped at her daughter. “Pack your things and go to your husband. I never want to see you here again!” Arina went ashen. “Mum, I have a baby! I can’t be stressed!” “You haven’t got a mother, Arina. The girl I raised had a mother. You’re just a thief.” Mrs Galina… God, she called me every day, worried about us, and never breathed a word. How can I look her in the eye? How? Arina grabbed her bag, threw a towel on the floor. “Keep your bloody money, then!” she yelled. “Miserable old cows! Go rot, both of you!” She stormed into the next room, snatched up the baby’s carrier and stormed out. Natasha sank onto a chair, hid her face in her hands. Lena felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Nat…” “No, Lena… You have nothing to apologise for. I’m sorry—for raising such a… monster. I honestly thought she’d made it on her own—and all this time… the shame…” Lena squeezed her friend’s shoulder as Natasha broke down in tears. *** A week later Arina’s husband, pale and gaunt, visited each “creditor” in turn, apologising, eyes on the floor. Promised to pay everyone back. And the money did start coming—fifty grand for Mrs Galina paid by Natasha herself. Lena doesn’t feel at fault. A cheat deserves to face the music. Right?

A Heaven-Sent Gift… It was a gloomy morning, with heavy clouds dragging low across the sky. In the distance, muffled growls of thunder could be heard—the first thunderstorm of spring was on its way. Winter had finally ended, but spring seemed reluctant to take its place. It was still cold, gusty winds snatched up last year’s leaves and chased them around, only a few brave blades of grass pushing through the hardened earth. Buds on the trees remained tightly closed, reluctant to reveal their treasures. Nature longed for rain. The winter had been dry, windy, cold. The earth was poorly rested, lacked moisture, hadn’t slept enough beneath its snowy blanket and was now anxiously awaiting the storm. The storm would bring much-needed water, nourish it with generous rain, wash away the dust and dirt, and revive life. Only then would true spring arrive—bountiful, blooming, fresh as a young woman filled with love and tenderness. That’s when the earth would give birth to green grass and colourful flowers, trembling leaves and sweet fruits. Birds would joyfully sing, building nests in blooming gardens. Life would carry on. “Sasha, time for breakfast!” called Victoria. “Your coffee’s getting cold.” From the kitchen wafted the scent of coffee and eggs. It was time to get up. After yesterday’s heavy conversation, Victoria’s weeping, a sleepless night and difficult thoughts, he just wanted to stay in bed. But he had to get up—life carried on. Victoria looked exhausted too—red eyes, dark circles. She offered her pale cheek for a kiss and managed a weak smile. “Good morning, love. Looks like we’re in for a storm. Goodness, how I want some rain! When will real spring finally arrive? Listen, a verse came to mind…” She recited: I wait for spring, as for release From winter’s cold, from homelessness. Spring I await, as if it brings A clearing up of life’s distress. I always think, as soon as she Arrives, all will be bright and dear. I always think that she alone Can make things better, simpler, clear. Where are you, Spring? Come, hurry here! Sasha hugged her frail shoulders, kissed her bowed, golden head. Her hair smelled of meadows and wildflowers. His heart ached with pity. Poor love, why is God punishing us? At least there had been hope—hope had kept them going all these years. But yesterday, a renowned professor, their last tender hope, had dashed their expectations: “I’m very sorry, but you cannot have children. Sasha, your time at Chernobyl has left a mark. Medicine is powerless here. I’m truly sorry I can’t help.” Victoria wiped her eyes, shook back her hair. “Sasha, I’ve thought long and hard. We need to adopt a child from the orphanage. There are so many children who need families. Let’s bring home a boy—let’s raise a son. Agreed? We’ve been waiting for a son for so long…” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Sasha hugged her and couldn’t hold back his own tears. “Of course I agree! Don’t cry, sweetheart.” At that moment, a deafening crack of thunder echoed; the house seemed to tremble from its majestic roar. The heavens opened—rain finally poured! At last, God heard our prayers! The long-awaited shower fell in torrents. Day darkened as though night had come. Thunder barely paused, lightning flashed right overhead. Sasha and Victoria, embracing, stood at the window, cold drops and the scent of rain drifting through the open pane, invigorating the air. The darkness that had shrouded their hearts seemed to dissolve, wash away with this first spring rain. All they wanted now was for the rain to last longer. This long-awaited spring rain—a symbol of life renewed and blossoming once more. A few days later, they stood before the doors of the children’s home, a meeting arranged. They had come to choose their son—long-awaited, beloved, already loved before they’d even laid eyes on him. Hearts pounding, holding their breath, Sasha rang the bell. The door opened; they were expected. The meeting with the orphanage’s director had been several days before, now they were simply to meet children who might become their son. As they passed through the first room, a little girl caught their eye, sitting in a damp babygro on a sodden mat. Dirty shirt, dried snot under her nose, huge sorrowful blue eyes following every adult that passed. From her radiated neglect, loneliness—her presence pierced the heart. This was the children’s home—a shelter for the unwanted. In the next room, babies sat or lay in cots, clean and tidy, waiting expectantly. The nurse presented them like at a market, ticking off age, brief parent details. Sasha shuddered. Buyers at market… only the price left to ask. “Let’s go back to that poor little girl,” Victoria whispered. Sasha squeezed her shoulder. “Nurse, could we see the blue-eyed girl from the first room again?” “But you wanted a boy,” the nurse replied, puzzled. “That girl won’t suit you. She’s not ready to meet visitors.” “We want to see her again.” The nurse hesitated, considering an objection, then led them back in silence. “I’ll call Mrs. Peters, the director. Please wait here.” She gestured to some chairs. Victoria pressed close to Sasha. “Let’s choose her, Sasha. My heart gave a jolt when I saw her.” “Mine too. She looks just like you. Eyes, hair… and so lonely!” Soon the nurse returned with Mrs. Peters, clearly concerned. “You’ve chosen a difficult child. She may not be suitable.” “Why not? We like her, she’s the image of Victoria! Just look—they’re almost twins!” Sasha strode towards the room where the girl had been. She’d been tidied up, clean clothes, her little face brighter. As the adults stopped by her cot, she smiled; dimples showed on her cheeks, her arms reached out, and she made an attempt to stand— Victoria clutched Sasha’s hand in shock—the little girl’s feet turned the wrong way. Without hesitation, Sasha scooped her up; she nestled against his face and went still. Tears filled Sasha’s eyes; Victoria buried her face in his shoulder, weeping. Mrs. Peters turned away, dabbing her eyes discreetly. “Come to my office. Nurse, take Lena.” Mrs. Peters led the way firmly. The little girl, Lena, had been born to elderly, struggling parents in a remote northern village. She had deformities—legs twisted, feet misshapen. Her father refused to bring her home. When pressed that surgery could help, he claimed no money and wouldn’t have a cripple in the house with so many mouths already. So Lena was left in care. “Now you must decide for yourselves if you want such a child. She has a good chance, but it will take dedication, expense—and above all, patience and powerful love. Take your time to think, consult with specialists. Here’s the professor who examined her. You have one month—no more visits in the meantime. Our children become attached quickly. It would be cruel to change your mind after promising hope…” A month passed. Sasha and Victoria decided straightaway: Lena was their daughter. The Leningrad professor confirmed: repeated surgery could fix the damage. Even scars would disappear. Their Lena would run like any child. Sasha calculated their finances. They could make it—if they sold the new car and the barely-started house. They’d live in a small flat for now—God would help with the rest, if their daughter was healthy. Finally, the day came—they stood outside the familiar door once more. Sasha held a bouquet of pink peonies, Victoria a huge bag of gifts for the children. Mrs. Peters’s lips trembled, eyes filling with tears. Happiness—another lost child would find a family. Together, they went to the nursery. Lena had grown, fair hair curling, cheeks rosy, new teeth. She babbled, beaming at them. Sasha took her into his arms; she hugged his neck and snuggled close. Victoria’s turn—tears all round. They spent the day at the children’s home, learning from the staff how to care for their new daughter. Legal adoption still awaited—Victoria quit her job, devoted herself to Lena. They prepared for her first operation in Leningrad. A month in hospital, and she was soon showing off to “Daddy Sasha”—eating with a spoon, pretending to be a cat, butting heads like a mischievous goat. The sight of her legs still broke their hearts. Outside, she wore long trousers. She walked with an awkward waddle, but Lena was lively, sociable, talking early, saying hello to everyone. Above all, she adored “Daddy”—her papa, her sunshine. A year later, more surgeries—so much suffering for their child, so much patience for the parents. Victoria spent many sleepless nights at Lena’s hospital bed. But, at last, triumph: her legs, like any other girl’s, could run and jump! At five, Lena went to nursery—her artistic talent noticed. She was sent to art school, and her pictures—joyful landscapes, lively scenes—attracted attention and astonishment; so young and so talented. At seven, she began school, quickly becoming a star pupil—cheerful, clever, artistic, dancing. Always surrounded by friends, she filled every space with laughter. Her parents felt pride at every meeting. No one suspected the hardship Lena and her parents—those who raised and loved her—had overcome. Blessings continued for Sasha and Victoria. With Lena’s arrival, fortunes turned. Sasha’s small business blossomed; they moved to Leningrad, bought a lovely flat, sent Lena to a prestigious school. Now in Year Six, Lena excels—still top of the class, still artistic, blue-eyed, golden-haired, everyone’s favourite, a gentle-hearted girl. A Heaven-Sent Gift—a blessing in their lives.

Mirra: The Update Is Ready For the First Time, My Phone Burst Red in a Lecture—Not Just the Screen, but the Whole Scratched Brick Glowing Like an Ember. “It’ll Explode Any Moment, Mate,” Whispered Alex from the Next Desk. Ignore Pirated Firmware, He Warned. While the Econometrics Lecturer Scribbled at the Board and the Room Buzzed, That Crimson Glow Shone Through My Denim Jacket. The Vibration Wasn’t the Jittery Buzz I Knew—It Was Steady, Like a Pulse. “Update Available,” the Screen Flashed as I Pulled the Phone Out—Underneath, a Creepy Minimalist Icon: Black Circle, White Rune or Perhaps a Stylised ‘M’. I’d Seen a Hundred Similar Apps Before—But This One Felt Like It Was Staring Back at Me. Title: “Mirra”. Category: “Tools”. Size: 13MB. No Rating. “Install It,” Whispered Someone on My Right. I Jumped, but Kat Was Busy with Her Notebook—She Hadn’t Spoken. Then the Voice Was Just There, in My Head, Like a Popup: “Install.” I’m the Guy Who Beta Tests Everything, Flashes ROMs, Pokes Around Where Sane People Wouldn’t. But Even I Found This Strange. Yet My Finger Pressed Download. It Installed Instantly—As if Mirra Had Been Waiting in the System. No Registration, No Logins, No Permissions. Just a Black Screen—“Welcome, Andrew.” How Did It Know My Name? “Young Man, If You’re Finished Talking to Your Phone, Let’s Get Back to Demand and Supply,” the Lecturer Chimed, Glaring Down Her Glasses. The Class Sniggered as I Slid the Phone Under My Desk—Glued to That One Line on Screen. “First Feature Unlocked: Probability Shift (Level 1).” A Button: “Activate.” Tiny Print: “Warning: Use Alters Event Structures. Side Effects Possible.” It Felt Like Some Clickbait ‘Luck Timer’, But My Phone Was Still Hot. I Pressed ‘Activate.’ The World Wobbled—Colours Sharpened, Sounds Faded, A Crystal Rung in My Ears. “Feature Activated. Choose Target.” I Typed: “Not Get Picked During Class.” A Subtle Lurch—As if the Room Dropped by a Millimetre. Then Everything Reset. Lecturer Rattled Off Attendance. My Gut Froze. Surely She’d Call My Name—She Always Did. “…Kovalev? Late Again. Fine. Next… Petrov, to the Board.” Kat Paled and Stumbled Forwards. It Worked. It Actually Worked. After Class, Numb Like After a Gig, I Stared at Mirra—No Rating, No Details, No Permissions. Almost as if It Wasn’t There at All. “It Could Just Be Coincidence,” I Insisted. But the Next Notification Popped: “Mirra Update (1.0.1) Ready. New Feature: Through the Veil.” No Developer, No Android Version. Just That Dry, Oddly Honest Line: “Through the Veil.” I Hit ‘Defer’. The Phone Whined and Installed Anyway. “Feature: Through the Veil (Level 1)—See the True State of Objects and People. Range: 3 Metres. Duration: 10 Seconds Max. Price: Heightened Feedback.” What Feedback? My Spine Turned Cold. Crushed on the Bus, Curiosity Won. “Just Ten Seconds—Just a Peek.” Everything Blurred, Threads Spun from People—Grey and Ragged, Blue and Shivering. The Driver Had a Thick Black Cord Over His Head, Squirming with Shadows. I Checked My Own Hands. Red Veins Flickered—And One Thicker Thread Linked Me to My Phone, Throbbing and Growing. I Cut the App Off. Noise Crashed Back in. “Feedback Increased: +5%.” Again, “Update Mirra for Proper Operation.” “Proper for What?” I Demanded. No Answer. News Broke an Hour Later: A Lorry Jack-Knifed into a Bus at the University Crossroads. The Plate Number Matched. The Driver—I Couldn’t Bear to Look. “Any Change to the Network of Probabilities Redistributes Load Elsewhere,” the App Calmly Explained. “You Lowered Your Odds of Being Called in Class. Elsewhere, Odds Rose.” “But I Didn’t Know!” “Ignorance Doesn’t Break the Connection.” Siren Wails Crept Closer. Another Update: “Cancel Feature Added. Undo a Single Change. But Ripple Effects Will Remain.” If I Undo My Wish? I Can’t Reverse Time. But Maybe Different Outcomes Will Ripple Through Next Time. After Weighing It All, I Installed the Update. The World Twisted—Less a Jerk, More an Alignment. “Cancellation Complete. Lockdown Active. Feedback Level Stabilised.” And That’s the Choice: Start Playing God, or Become a Fuse, the Catch-All for All That Stray Chaos? Mirra Sat Waiting—Version 1.1.0: Forecast Function, ‘Moral Error Fixes’. I Laughed Bitterly—Morality Was the Only Thing I Still Had. I Shut Off Updates, Swore to Watch the System as an Admin, Not a Demi-God. From My Desk, I Drafted “Mirra: A User’s Protocol”—Notes for Anyone Who Might Find Themselves at the Crossroads of Power and Consequence. Of Probability and Price. Because Sometimes, Even the Most Unlikely Outcomes—Deserve Their Chance to Happen.