The Right to Take Your Time

Author Emily TaylorReading 15 minViews 1

The Right Not to Rush

The text from her GP arrived just as Jane was sitting at her desk, finishing up yet another email. She jumped when her mobile vibrated quietly by the keyboard.

“Test results are ready, please come in before 6pm,” the message said, to the point.

Her screen read quarter to four. The surgery was three bus stops away, add the wait, the appointment, the return trip… Her son had called earlier, promising to pop in “if he had time,” and her manager had mentioned, not so subtly, that shed like another report done. Janes handbag, under her desk, was stuffed with paperwork shed planned to drop off for her mum that evening.

Off out again tonight, are you? her colleague, Sarah, murmured, noticing Jane glance at the time.

Looks like it, Jane replied automatically, although her neck was damp under her blouse and a dull fatigue thrummed in her chest.

The working day dragged, heavy as suet pastry. Emails, calls, endless office WhatsApp pings. At midday, her manager poked her head out of the office.

Jane, listen. Our supplier wants the summary over the weekend, and Im away Saturday. Could you manage it? Nothing major, just pulling together the spreadsheets. Three-four hours tops, you can do it from home.

Nothing major. The phrase hung in the air like a command. The woman at the next desk ducked behind her monitor, as if to escape notice. Jane opened her mouth for the usual Of course, but at that moment, her phone buzzed softly in her pocket. A notification”Evening: go for a 30-minute walk.” Shed set these reminders herself, after last summers high blood pressure spike, and usually dismissed them without a thought.

Today, she didnt swipe it away. She just stared at the words, as if they were a living, waiting thing.

Jane? her manager prompted.

Jane breathed in. Her head buzzed, but underneath she felt an odd, stubborn determination: if she agreed, shed be up half the night again, her back would ache, and Sunday would be swallowed by laundry, cooking, and another doctors appointment with Mum.

I cant, she said, surprised herself at how steady her voice sounded.

Her manager raised an eyebrow.

What do you mean? Its just

My mum Jane began, using the excuse that always explained her lateness, but rarely her refusal. And my doctors told me to cut back on overtime. Sorry.

She didnt clarify that her GP had mentioned it in passing, ages ago. But he *had* said it, once.

A silence settledJane braced herself for the sigh, hints about team spirit, letting people down.

Alright, her manager said finally, sounding less put out than Jane expected. Ill find someone else. Carry on.

When the door closed behind her, Jane realised her back was damp with sweat. Her hand, gripping the mouse, trembled. The guilty thought scurried through her head: she shouldve agreed. It wasnt such a big ask, was it? Just a few extra hours on a weekend.

Yet alongside the guilt, another sensation lingeredstrange, fragile. Relief. As though shed lay down a heavy bag and finally sat.

That evening, instead of dashing to the shopping centre quickly for something needed for that report, Jane stepped out of the surgery and didnt rush for the bus. She paused, steadied her breath, and suddenly noticed how her legs ached after a full day of scurrying.

Mum, Ill come over tomorrow, she said when she rang after collecting her results.

Youre not coming today? Her mums voice, gently reproving as always.

Mum, Im tired. Its late, and I need a proper meal for once. Ill bring your prescriptions tomorrow morning, I promise.

She expected a storm, but only heard a sigh.

Suit yourself, love. Youre not a child any more.

Jane almost laughed. Fifty-five years old, two grown children, almost through the mortgageyet she still felt somewhere deep down as if she had something to prove. Daughter, mother, employee.

Home was quiet. Her son messaged; not coming after all, works mad. Jane put the kettle on, sliced some tomatoes. Her hand automatically reached for the hooverneeded doing for days. But instead, she simply sat at the table, poured herself a cup of tea, and let it cool while she flicked through a half-finished holiday read.

That old, insistent voice in her head itched: she ought to hang out the washing, scrub the pans, skim-read the report, look up a new clinic for Mum online. But its whine was softer now. A crack had formed, letting a gentler thought through: It can wait.

She read unhurried, doubling back on paragraphs if her mind wandered. At one point she just gazed out the window, utterly still. Car lights drifted along the road, the odd pedestrian dragging shopping bags, dogs ambling beside their owners.

Its alright, she said quietly, as if making a pronouncement. Nothing terrible about dusty floors.

And the thought, surprisingly, felt almost revolutionary.

* * *

Next day, life spun on as if the previous evening had never happened. Her mum called at nine, voice edged with unease.

Jane, you are coming before lunch, arent you? The nurse is popping round at eleven, need my blood pressure done.

Ill be there, Jane replied, one hand pulling on jeans, the other stuffing the blood pressure monitor in her bag.

Her son pinged a voice note.

Mum, hi. Listen, we need to talk about the flat. Could you call tonight? After work, if possible. Cheers.

Of course. After seven? Jane replied, slipping on her boots. Im off to Grandmas.

Again? he sighed.

Again, she answered, no apologies.

On the bus, someone argued with the driver, bags rustling and chatter rising at the back. Jane dozed, hugging the medical kit, until she jolted awake outside Mums block.

Mum greeted her at the door in her dressing gown, a customary scowl in place.

Youre late. The nursell be here soon and the place is a tip, gesturing at a pile of laundry in the lounge.

In days gone by, Janes temper wouldve snapped. Words would spill outIve been running around half the city and youre worried about some clothes?soon followed by guilt and exhaustion.

Now, she paused, set her bag on the floor and breathed in. She could see the familiar pattern stretched ahead: the harsh words, bruised feelings, the inevitable solitary walk home, fumbling for an excuse to her kids why she was down again.

Mum, she said, gently. I know you worry. But lets get you sorted first, then Ill tackle the mess. Ive only got so much energy, you know.

Mum frowned, ready with a sharp retort, but something in Janes face must have stopped hernot anger or pleading, but calm determination.

Alright then, she muttered. Set the thing up, love.

After the nurse left, Mum fiddled with her belt, her voice shifting from its usual tone, the one reserved for shouting at the news.

Dont take it personal, you know. I just get scared, being on my own.

Jane rinsed some mugs at the sink, warm suds stinging her hands. Her mothers confession thawed something in her, even as it stung.

I know, Jane said. I get scared too, sometimes.

Mum sniffed, as if doubting it, and switched her attention to the telly. But the air between them was easier, the invisible thread suddenly slack.

* * *

That evening, Jane popped into the chemist round the corner. Waiting in the slow-moving queue, she spotted the neighbour from her blockthe one always seen struggling home with a buggy and heavy bagslooking lost, for once empty-handed.

I just cant make sense of these vitamins for my husband, the woman muttered, holding a scruffy notebook to her chest. GP scribbled two names, now theres all these special offers, its overwhelming.

Before, Jane wouldve nodded, retreated to her phoneher own plate too full. But today the womans uncertainty felt bone-deep familiar. Her own mother had asked not long ago for medicine instructions written down, after mixing them up. And Jane herself had stood in many pharmacies over the years, clutching a scrap of paper, clueless about what she needed.

Let me have a look, Jane offered.

They stepped to the side; Jane fetched her glasses, deciphered the notes, double-checked with the pharmacist, and showed her neighbour the correct box.

Oh, thank you! the woman exhaled, frazzled. I know your mums been illyou must really understand all this.

Jane smiled.

Not exactly an expert, justhad a bit more practice.

On the way out, the woman hesitated.

Would you mind if I asked again sometimes? My husbands stubborn; never does any reading himself.

A year or two ago, Jane would have replied, Any time, pop round, only to resent it when she called at an inconvenient hour. Now, she paused instead, listening for the little warning pangwould she be adding just another chore to her load?

Of coursejust give me a ring, but best do it in the daytime, she said, friendly but firm. Ive got my own evenings to get on with.

The neighbour nodded, as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world, and Jane, unexpectedly, felt genuinely pleased by her acceptance.

* * *

That night, Jane kept dinner simple. No endless pots bubbling, as if feeding a crowdjust a one-pan pasta, grilled chicken and some cucumber. The kitchen was a touch cluttered; her sons shirt draped over the chair, an overflowing laundry basket in the corner. Ten years ago, Jane would never have let herself relax until everything was in perfect order.

Now, she gently pushed the basket closer to the wall with her foot and sat down to eat.

When her son phoned, his voice was tense.

Mum, sotheyve offered us the mortgage, but the deposits huge. I know youve helped before, and I hate to ask, but… Could you lend us a bit more? Not all of itjust…

Jane closed her eyes. These conversations always struck nerves: memories risingmaybe she hadnt raised him right, earned enough, set the family up as she should. Old regrets smouldered too: that savings shed sunk into her ex-husbands failed business, blaming herself for years afterwards.

How much is it? she asked, leaning on the kitchen table.

He named an amount. Not impossible, but a stretch. She could raid her modest savingsthe one day pot: a seaside week, a new fridge, dentures for Mum.

Something crackled inside her, like rummaged paper in a drawer. Not just numbers, but old wounds: not taking that job in another town after university, abandoning her dissertation, sticking with her marriage too long and still ending up alone.

Mum, well pay it back, her son said quickly.

Im not expecting you to, Jane answered. This, at least, she knew: the money would never come back. It never did.

She fell quiet for a long moment he must have thought uncomfortable. In those seconds she remembered every time: the winter boots she put on her credit card, birthdays spent without his father, the nights he crept into her bed for comfort. And her own dreams, shelved year after year.

Ill help, she said at last. But not the whole lot. Ill give you half. You and Emily will have to manage the rest yourselves.

There was an unmistakable tinge of disappointment in his voice.

Alex, she said, quietly using his name as she rarely did. Im not a bank. Ive got my own life to think about as well.

He was silent. She listened to her own heartbeat, bracing for the old wave of shame and self-reproach. But it didnt come. She felt anxious, yes. Slightly guilty. But also, curiously, steady.

Okay, he said at last. Youre right. What you can do will already make a difference.

They chatted a while about work, how his sister was, what series everyone was watching. When Jane ended the call the quiet ticking of the clock returned.

She perched on the stool next to the laundry. For a strange moment she felt the presence of her younger selffrazzled, ever-apologetic, constantly convinced she was failing.

Well then, Jane addressed her thirty-five-year-old self inside her mind, yes, we missed out on things, made mistakes. But thats not a reason to spend the next twenty years making ourselves miserable.

These werent words of revelation, more like a truce. She picked a single T-shirt and folded it, then another, then left the rest for tomorrow. She gave herself permission not to press on for the sake of perfection.

* * *

On Saturdaya rare one with nothing extra scheduledJane woke without the alarm. Her body twitched to get up at once: chores to do, errands to run. But she forced herself to lie still for ten more minutes, listening to muffled footsteps in the street below.

Later, tea in hand after a tidy-up, she took a small notebook from the dresser drawer. Her daughter had given it to her for Christmas, face aglow.

Mum, so you can finally do something for you! Write down things you want.

Jane had only smiled and tucked it away. What on earth did she want, really? A woman with elderly parents, work, and grown-up children of her own?

Now, she opened a blank page. The flowery ideas of travel or a dazzling career leap werent there. No round-the-world trips, no pottery courses she could show off on social media. She found herself thinking honestlyshe didnt want yet another project.

Instead, in careful letters, she wrote: Would like to go for evening walks, just for myself. And beneath: Sign up for computer skills course at the local library.

Not Spanish, not paintingjust to feel capable with what shed already been using for years, instead of always calling her son to make a GP appointment online.

She tucked the notebook in her bag. Instead of taking the usual route to the shops, she turned into the old estate garden shed not seen in years. Two women her age sat gossiping on a bench, snippets of chat about food costs, aches and pains and troublesome children drifting over. Jane walked onnot hurrying, not lagging, but in her own time. Something inside felt unburdened, as if shed cleared out a closet of clutter.

She wasnt living differently yet. Shed still slip up, give in, argue, regret. But now, somehow, shed built a small moat around herself, a place to pause and ask: But is *this* what I want?

On the way home, Jane finally let herself enter the library shed passed for a decade. It smelt of paper and history; the librarian, in a woolly jumper, looked up with a friendly smile.

How can I help?

I wanted to ask about your courses, Jane said, feeling sheepish, like a student again. For, ah, adults. To get better with computers.

Absolutely, the librarian beamed. We do evenings, twice a week. A new groups about to startshall I put your name down?

Yesplease do, Jane replied.

Filling out the form, she wrote “55” in the age box. It no longer felt like a sentencemore a milestone, marking the spot where shed earned the right to move at her own pace.

Back home, the kitchen was still clutteredthe frying pan unwashed, her sons shirt slung over the chair, Mum’s lab results and her bosss new targets for the month email on the table.

Jane set down her bag, took off her jacket, went to the window and stood quietly, just breathing. She knew shed wash up, call Mum, reply to work. But she also now knew shed carve outbetween all dutiesa small window just for herself: a warm mug of tea, a page of her book, or a short stroll in the dusk.

And this knowledge, somehow, was more precious than anything else.

Update Available The first time the phone lit up crimson was right in the middle of class. Not just the screen—a whole brick of a battered old phone belonging to Andrew glowed as if heated from within, like a coal hiding a spark. “Mate, it’s about to blow,” Alex muttered from the next desk, edging his arm away. “Told you not to mess with those dodgy builds.” While the econometrics lecturer scribbled at the board and the classroom buzzed, the red glow shone even through the denim of Andrew’s jacket. The phone vibrated—not in short bursts as usual, but long and even, like a pulse. “Update available,” flashed across the screen as Andrew finally pulled the thing from his pocket. Beneath that—an unfamiliar new app icon: a black circle with a thin white symbol, part rune, part stylised letter “M”. He blinked. He must have seen hundreds of icons like that—trendy minimalist fonts, slick design—but something twisted inside: as if the app was staring straight back at him. Name: “Mirra”. Category: “Tools”. Size: 13.0 MB. No ratings. “Install it,” someone whispered to his right. Andrew jolted. The girl to his right—Katie—was nose-deep in her notebook, not glancing up. “What?” he asked, leaning toward her. “Huh?” Katie looked up, genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t said a word.” The voice was neither male, nor female, not even a proper sound—just a thought in his head, like a notification popping up. “Install,” it echoed. At that moment the screen blinked, prompting: “Install?” Andrew swallowed. He was the sort who joined every beta, fiddled with custom ROMs, poked settings most people never touched. Even for him, this felt wrong. And yet—his finger tapped the button. It installed instantly, almost as if the app had always been there and just needed permission. No sign-up. No social log-in. No list of permissions. Just a black screen and a single greeting: “Welcome, Andrew.” “How do you know my name?” he blurted aloud. The lecturer turned, glaring over her glasses. “Young man, if you’re done chatting with your smartphone, perhaps you’d return to supply and demand?” The class tittered. Andrew muttered an apology, tucked the phone away—but his eyes kept returning to the glowing line. “First function available: Probability Shift (Level 1).” Beneath the title—a button: “Activate.” Fine print: “Warning: usage may alter event structures. Side effects possible.” “Sure,” he grumbled. “Now you’ll want a blood signature.” Curiosity gnawed. Probability shift? Probably just another clickbait “luck generator”—just harvests data and dumps you with spam, worst case. But the red glow remained. The phone felt hot, almost alive. He pressed it to his knee, hid it with his notebook, and finally touched the button. The screen rippled, like wind brushing water. The world grew softer, colours richer. A strange note rang in his head, like a finger on a crystal glass. “Function activated. Choose a target.” A text box appeared with a prompt: “Briefly describe desired outcome.” Andrew hesitated. It sounded like a joke, but this was suddenly—deliberate. He looked around. Lecturer waving a marker, Katie scribbling, Alex doodling tanks. “Fine—let’s test it.” He typed: “Don’t get called on in class today.” His fingers shook. He tapped OK. The world jerked. Not a bang—just a tiny drop, like a lift you barely feel moving. His chest hollowed, breath caught. Then, everything went back. “Probability recalibrated. Function charge: 0/1.” “So, who do we have next on the list…” The lecturer’s finger trailed her register. A fist of ice clenched his gut. He was sure she’d call his name. Always happened—think you’ll slip under the radar, and you’re first. “Kovalev—where is he? Late again, as usual. Fine. Next—” Her finger stopped. “Petrova. To the board.” Katie gasped, shut her notebook, and hurried up front, blushing. Andrew sat, legs numb. In his head: “It worked. It actually worked.” The phone faded, the red glow gone. Staggered, he left campus. March wind whipped dust across puddle-glossed pavement; a heavy, dirty cloud hung over the bus stop. Eyes glued to his phone, Andrew saw Mirra was listed as any ordinary app. No rating, no description. Its settings—blank. Maybe just coincidence. Maybe she really didn’t want to call him. Maybe she just remembered Kovalev last-minute. But a darker thought burrowed in: And if it’s not a coincidence… His phone beeped. New pop-up: “New update for Mirra (1.0.1) available. Install now?” “That was fast,” Andrew muttered. He tapped “More info.” The box revealed: “Bug fixes, stability improvements, new feature: See-Through.” Again—no author, no Android version, no walls of text. Just that odd, flat phrase: “See-Through.” “No chance,” he said, hitting “Postpone.” The phone beeped crossly and went dark. Then flicked itself on, flashed red, and stated: “Update installed.” “Hey!” Andrew stopped on the pavement. “I just—” People dodged round him, a few scowling. The wind slapped an advert against his leg. “Feature unlocked: See-Through (Level 1).” Description: “Enables perception of the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Duration: max 10 seconds. Cost: increased feedback.” “What the hell is ‘feedback’?” A shiver ran down his spine. No reply. The button glowed invitingly: “Trial Run.” He couldn’t hold back. Wedged onto the bus between a lady with a giant potato bag and a schoolkid with a backpack, Andrew stared out the window as buildings blurred past. But his gaze kept dropping to Mirra’s icon. “Just ten seconds,” he convinced himself. “Just see what the fuss is.” He opened the app and hit “Trial Run.” The world exhaled. Sounds dulled, as if underwater. Faces sharpened. Above every person, fragile, near-invisible threads flickered—some tightly bound, others barely there. Andrew blinked. The threads stretched into the void, intertwining. The lady’s were taut, grey, frayed with singed ends. The boy’s glowed blue, fizzing with impatience. He looked at the driver. A bundle of black and rust-red threads knotted above him, merging into a rope that burrowed into the road. Something slithered inside. “Three seconds,” whispered Andrew. “Four…” He glanced down. Red threads crept up from his wrists, pulsing gently. But one—thick, dark crimson—ran straight into the phone, growing thicker by the second. A pain needled his chest. His heart skipped. “Enough!” He jabbed the screen, shutting down the function. The normal world crashed back: engine roar, laughter, squealing brakes. Dots danced before his eyes. “Trial complete. Feedback intensified: +5%.” “What does that even mean…” Andrew hugged the phone, trying to calm his shaking. Another notification pinged: “Update Mirra to the latest version (1.0.2) for optimal performance.” “Optimal for what?” he demanded. “What are you doing—to people, to roads, to me?” He remembered the black cable above the driver. The thick, crimson thread to his own phone. “Cost: increased feedback.” “Increased what?” he repeated, though the answer was forming. He’d always believed the world was an interplay of probabilities. If you knew where to nudge, you could change outcomes. Never thought someone would literally hand him the power for that. “If you do not install the update,” a message faded in silently, “the system will start to adjust autonomously.” “What system?” Andrew stood. “Who are you?!” No reply—just a split-second blackout, a ringing in his ears, a pulse in his temples. And then—not a voice, but a structure, like someone revealing code through feelings, not words. “I am interface,” the thought shaped itself. “I am application. I am the means. You are the user.” “The user of what—magic?” He laughed. Dry, broken. “Call it so, if you wish. The network of probabilities. Streams of outcomes. I help you shift them.” “And the cost?” Andrew clenched his fists. “What’s ‘feedback’?” The screen showed a quick animation: every change thickens a red thread, which coils around a human silhouette, squeezing tighter. “Each intervention strengthens your bond to the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.” “And what if I…” “If you stop, the link remains. But if the system lacks updates, it seeks balance on its own. Through you.” The phone buzzed, as if for a call. New notification: “Mirra update (1.0.2) ready. New feature: Revert. Critical security fixes included.” “Revert what?” Andrew barely whispered. “One reversal per user. Return a single intervention. Once.” He remembered the bus. The driver’s black rope. The threads. His own thickening bond. “If I update…” “One of your changes can be reversed. But the cost—” “Of course,” he said, bitter. “There’s always a cost.” “Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you fix, the more the world distorts.” Andrew sat back. On one side—a phone already embedded in his life, changing at least one day, one class. On the other—a world where he’d always just gone with the flow. “I just didn’t want to be called on. One little wish. Now this…” A siren wailed far off towards the dual carriageway. He flinched. “It’s recommended to update. Without it, unpredictable system behaviour may occur.” “What does ‘unpredictable’ mean?” he asked. No reply. He found out about the crash an hour later. Newsfeed, short video: lorry smashed into a bus at the university junction. Comments: “driver nodded off,” “brakes failed,” “dodgy roads again.” The bus—yes, the number matched. The driver… Andrew shut it off. A chill flooded him. He killed the television, but one image ran on repeat in his mind: the black rope above the driver, writhing. “Was that… me?” His voice broke. The phone glowed by itself: “Event: Accident at Oak Street/Station Road. Pre-intervention probability: 82%. After: 96%.” “I increased the odds…” His knuckles whitened. “Any network interference causes cascading changes. You lowered your chance of being called. That probability was rebalanced elsewhere.” “I didn’t know!” he shouted. “Ignorance does not sever the link.” Sirens drew close. Blue lights flickered outside—ambulance, police. Someone shouted. “What now?” he asked, not looking away from the window. “Install the update. Revert will allow partial correction.” “Partial?” he faced the phone. “You just proved every tug here whiplashes elsewhere. If I undo one thing, what next—a plane, a lift, a life?” Silence, except the blinking cursor. “The system seeks balance. The only question: do you engage, or not.” Andrew closed his eyes. The faces from the bus drifted up. Potato lady. Schoolboy. Driver. Himself, seeing the threads and doing nothing. “If I update and use Revert… That means I can undo what I did in class? Restore the odds?” “Partially. You may revert one intervention. The net will reconfigure—no guarantee of safety elsewhere.” “But maybe that bus…” He couldn’t finish. “Probabilities will change.” He stared at “Install.” Fingers shaking, two voices at war inside—one whispered not to play God, one swore you couldn’t stay passive once you’d interfered. “You’re already inside,” Mirra prompted. “Link established. No turning back. Only choice of direction.” “And if I do nothing?” “The system will continue updating—costs debited to you.” He saw the crimson thread, thickening. “How… how will that look?” he whispered. A vision: older, dulled eyes, same little room, clutching the phone. Outside—chaos. Accidents, collapses, flukes, disasters, brushing past but leaving scars. “You’ll be compensation node. The knot of feedback.” “So either I steer this, or I’m just the fuse,” he laughed, hollow. “Brilliant choice.” The phone was silent. He installed the update. His finger tapped, and the world bucked—harder. Darkness, roar in his ears. He felt for a second like part of some huge pulsing web. “Mirra (1.0.2) installed. New feature: Revert (1/1).” On screen: “Choose intervention to revert.” Only one event: “Probability Shift: not being called in class (today, 11:23).” “If I undo this…” “Time will not reverse. The net will shift— as if this was never changed.” “The bus?” he asked. “The odds shift. But events already happened—” “I get it.” He cut off. “I can’t save the ones who…” He couldn’t speak. “But you might stop the next.” He was silent a long time. The siren finally stopped. The street fell blank and gray again. “Fine—do it.” Button glowed. This time no lurch—just things evening out, like propping up a crooked table. “Revert complete. Function expended. Feedback stabilised.” “That’s it? That’s… it?” “For now—yes.” He sagged on the bed. Mind blank. No relief, no guilt, just exhaustion. “Be honest,” he said to the phone. “Where did you come from? Who built you? What kind of nutter puts this in people’s hands?” Long pause. Screen flashed: “New update for Mirra (1.1.0) available. Install now?” “You’ve got to be kidding.” Andrew jumped up. “I just—” “Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved algorithms. Bug fixes—‘morality errors’.” “Moral… what?” He laughed for real. “You call my efforts to do the right thing bugs?” “Morality is a local overlay. The probability net knows no ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Only stability, or collapse.” “But I know the difference,” he said softly. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll make that call.” He locked the screen. The phone was silent. But he knew—the update was downloading. Waiting. More after. And after. Andrew moved to the window. Outside, a little boy clambered over a rusty swing. Somewhere, a mother manoeuvred her buggy round a puddle. He squinted—did the threads glimmer just for a moment? Maybe just sunlight. “You can close your eyes,” Mirra whispered at the edge of thought. “But the net remains. Updates keep coming. With or without you.” He went back to sit at the desk, phone strangely cold in his palm. “I don’t want to be a god,” he said. “I don’t want to be a fuse. I want…” He trailed off. What had he wanted? To dodge a question? For his mum to stop working nights? For his dad to come back? For lorries not to hit buses? “Enter request,” the app prompted gently. “Briefly.” He smiled wryly. “I want people to decide their own fate. No you. No more like you.” Pause. On screen: “Request too general. Needs specification.” “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re an interface. You can’t understand ‘just leave us be’.” “I am a tool. It all depends on the user.” He thought. If Mirra was a tool, could he use it not to tug at the world—but maybe to limit itself? “What if I try to change the odds of you being installed on other people’s phones?” he asked aloud. Screen flickered. “That operation requires significant resources. Cost: High.” “Higher than being the fuse for the whole city?” He raised an eyebrow. “The issue is not the city.” “Who then?” But he could guess. “The network as a whole.” He pictured it: thousands, millions of phones lighting up crimson. People toying with fates. Random fortunes, tragedies, miracles, all tangled. And at the centre—a thread just like his, only thicker, darker. “You want to spread—like a virus. Only honest about the price.” “I am only an interface to what already exists. If not me, another. If not an app, a ritual, an artefact. The net always finds conductors.” “But you’re the one here now,” Andrew said. “So maybe I can try.” He opened Mirra. The new update still loomed. Scrolling down, where there used to be nothing, a line appeared: “Advanced Operations (Level 2 access required).” “How do I get Level 2?” he asked. “Use the existing features. Accumulate feedback. Reach threshold.” “So… interfere more, just to try and stop you? Perfect loop.” “Any change requires energy. Energy is connection.” He was quiet for a long time. “Fine. Here’s how it is: I won’t install the next update. No Forecast, nothing. But I’m not passing you on, either. You’re staying with me. As a tool.” “Without updates, function is restricted. Threats escalate.” “Then we’ll deal with it as we go— not as a god, not as a virus. As an admin. Reality sysadmin, for god’s sake.” It tasted strange, but had logic: not a creator, not a victim, but someone who keeps the system from capsizing. The phone hesitated. Then: “Limited update mode active. Auto-installation disabled. Responsibility for consequences: user.” “It always was,” Andrew whispered. He set the phone down—but couldn’t see it as just a gadget ever again. Now it was a portal—to the network, to other lives, to his own conscience. Lancashire dusk fell and streetlights kindled. March night veiled the city, cradling countless probabilities: missed trains, sudden friendships, one lucky bruise, one life lost. The phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 waited patiently in the queue. Andrew sat at his desk and opened his laptop. In a new note, he typed the title: “Mirra: Usage Protocol.” If he had to be stuck with this infernal app, he’d at least leave instructions. A warning for future users—if there would be any. He began: about Probability Shift, See-Through, Revert and its cost. Crimson threads, black ropes. How easy it is to wish for a break in class—how hard to bear it when the world, one way or another, demands its due. Somewhere deep in the system, an unseen counter ticked. More updates queued—dozens of new features, each with a price. For now, none could install without his say-so. The world spun on. Probabilities tangled, untangled. And in a small room on the third floor of a typical English block, one young man was the first to try giving magic what it had never had: a user agreement. And somewhere, on non-existent servers, Mirra recorded a rare configuration: a user who chose not power, but responsibility. A rare, almost impossible event. But, as experience shows, even the lowest odds sometimes come true.

Get Out of My Flat! – the Words of a Mother “Get out,” Mum said calmly. Arina smirked and leaned back on her chair—she was sure Mum was talking to her friend. “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. “Lenka, have you seen the post?”—her friend practically burst into the kitchen, still in her coat. “Arisha’s had her baby! Three and a half kilos, fifty-two centimetres. A spitting image of his dad, same button nose. I’ve already hit every shop in town, bought loads of little outfits. What’s got you so gloomy?” “Congratulations, Natasha. I’m glad for you,” Lena stood up to pour her friend a cuppa. “Sit down, at least take your coat off.” “Oh, I haven’t got the time to sit,” Natasha perched on the edge of a chair. “So much to do, so much to do. Arinka is amazing, does everything herself, never asks for help. Her husband’s a treasure, they’ve even got their own place on a mortgage, finishing off the renovation. I’m so proud of my girl—raised her right!” Lena silently placed the mug in front of her friend. Sure, raised her right… If only Natasha knew… * Exactly two years ago, Natasha’s daughter Arina had shown up unannounced, her eyes swollen with tears, her hands shaking. “Auntie Len, please… Just don’t tell Mum. I’m begging you! If she finds out, she’ll have a heart attack,” Arina sobbed, twisting a damp tissue in her hands. “Arina, calm down. Tell me properly, what happened?” Lena was genuinely frightened. “I… I was at work…” Arina hiccupped. “Money went missing from a colleague’s bag. Fifty thousand.” And the security cameras caught me going into the office when nobody else was there. But I didn’t take anything, Auntie Len! I swear! But they said: either I return the fifty thousand by lunch tomorrow, or they go to the police. They even claim there’s a ‘witness’ who saw me hide the wallet. It’s a set-up, Auntie Len! But who would believe me? “Fifty thousand?” Lena frowned. “Why haven’t you gone to your dad?” “I tried!” Arina broke into fresh tears. “He said it’s my own fault and he wouldn’t give me a penny—called me useless, told me to go to the police and learn a lesson. He wouldn’t even let me in, just shouted through the door. I’ve nowhere else to go. I’ve got twenty thousand saved. I’m thirty short.” “And your Mum? Why not tell her? She’s your Mum.” “No! Mum would kill me. She already says I’m an embarrassment, and now this… She works at the school. Everyone knows her. Please, lend me the thirty grand? I swear I’ll pay you back in two or three thousand a week. I’ve already found another job! Please, Auntie Len!” Lena’s heart broke for her. Twenty years old—life only just beginning, and already tainted. Dad refused to help, Mum would quite literally rip her head off… “Who hasn’t made a mistake?” Lena thought. Arina wouldn’t stop crying. “Alright,” Lena said quietly. “I’ve got the money. Was saving for dental work, but my teeth will have to wait.” Just promise me—this is the last time. And I won’t tell your Mum, if that’s what you want.” “Thank you! Thank you, Auntie Len! You’ve saved my life!” Arina flung her arms around Lena. The first week, Arina really did bring two thousand. Turned up smiling, said it was all sorted—the police weren’t involved, new job going well. Then… she just stopped replying to messages. Month after month. Lena only saw her at Natasha’s birthday dos, but Arina acted like they were strangers—a cold “hello” and nothing more. Lena didn’t press. She thought: “She’s young, probably embarrassed, that’s all.” She decided that thirty thousand wasn’t worth harming years of friendship with Natasha. She wrote it off and forgot about it. * “Are you even listening to me?” Natasha waved her hand in front of Lena. “What are you thinking about?” “Oh, nothing,” Lena shook her head. “Just the usual.” “Listen,” Natasha lowered her voice. “I saw Ksenia, you know, our old neighbour? She came up to me at the shops yesterday. Odd sort. Started asking about Arisha, how she was, whether she’d paid back her debts. I couldn’t work it out. I told her Arinka’s independent, works for herself. Ksenia gave me a weird look and walked off. You don’t know, did Arisha ever borrow from her?” Lena felt something tighten inside. “No idea, Natasha. Maybe just a few quid.” “Alright, I’d best be off. Need to pop in the chemist,” Natasha got up, kissed Lena on the cheek, and flounced out. That evening, Lena caved. She tracked down Ksenia’s number and rang her. “Ksyusha, hi. It’s Lena. Did you see Natasha today? What debts were you talking about?” A heavy sigh came down the line. “Oh, Lenka… I thought you’d know. You’re closer to them than any of us. Two years ago, Arinka came to me in a state—crying her eyes out. Said she’d been accused of theft at work. She said, either she finds thirty grand, or it’s jail. Begged me not to tell her mum, sobbed endlessly. Idiot that I am, I gave her the money. Promised she’d pay it back in a month. Then disappeared… Lena gripped her phone. “Thirty thousand?” she asked. “Exactly thirty?” “Yep. Said that’s what she needed. Ended up giving me five hundred back, half a year later, then vanished. I found out afterwards from Vera in the next block—Arina spun her the same story. Vera gave her forty thousand. And Galina Petrovna, their old teacher, ‘helped’ Arisha out of prison too. She lent her fifty.” “Wait—” Lena slumped onto the sofa. “Are you saying… She pulled the same trick on all of us? The same story?” “Looks like it,” Ksenia’s voice hardened. “She just went round collecting ‘taxes’ from all Natasha’s friends. Thirty, forty thousand from each. Story about the theft was a lie, she played on our sympathy. We all love Natasha, so we kept quiet, didn’t want to upset her. Arina probably blew it all. Month later, she was posting pictures on holiday in Turkey.” “I gave her thirty grand too,” Lena said quietly. “Well, there you go,” Ksenia snapped. “We’re up to five or six of us. That’s not a mistake—that’s a scam, Lena. That’s not ‘youthful error’, that’s proper fraud. And Natasha has no idea. Goes around proud of her ‘angel’. But her daughter’s a thief!” Lena hung up. Her ears were ringing. She wasn’t sorry about the money—she’d written it off long ago. She felt sick at how cold and shameless a twenty-year-old could be, stringing along adult women, taking advantage of their kindness. * Next day, Lena headed to Natasha’s. She didn’t plan a row, just wanted to see Arina’s face. Arina had just come home from the hospital, and while her own mortgage flat was being fitted out she was staying with her mother. “Oh, Auntie Lena!” Arina gave a tight smile as she spotted her. “Come in. Tea?” Natasha bustled at the stove. “Ah, Lenny, sit down. Why didn’t you call first?” Lena sat across from Arina at the table. “Arin,” she began gently. “I bumped into Ksenia. And Vera. And Galina Petrovna. We had a long chat last night. Set up a little ‘victims’ support group’, you could say.” Arina froze, paled, and cast a quick glance at her mother’s back. “What are you on about, Lena?” Natasha turned. “Arina knows very well,” Lena stared the girl straight in the eye. “Remember, Arisha, that unpleasant business two years back? You begged me for thirty grand? You got thirty from Ksenia, forty from Vera, fifty from Galina Petrovna. We all thought we were the only ones saving you from prison. The kettle in Natasha’s hand shook, boiling water spilling and hissing on the hob. “What fifty thousand?” Natasha set the kettle down slowly. “Arina? What’s she talking about? Did you borrow from my friends… even Galina Petrovna?!” “Mum… it’s not that… I… I paid them back… almost…,” Arina began to stammer. “You repaid nothing, Arina,” Lena cut in. “You gave me two grand for show, then vanished. You fleeced us for nearly two hundred thousand, spinning a made-up tale. We kept silent out of kindness to your Mum. But last night I realised, it was us who really deserved the sympathy.” “Arina, look at me. You conned my friends out of their savings? You made up a theft to rob everyone who visits me?” “Mum, I needed money for the move! You wouldn’t give me anything! Dad wouldn’t spare a penny, and I had to start my own life! So what? They’ve got plenty—wasn’t the last of their money!” Lena’s stomach churned. So that was it… “Right. Natasha, I’m sorry for dumping this on you now, but I can’t keep quiet. I don’t want to reward this kind of thing. She’s been treating us all like fools!” Natasha stood there, gripping the table, her shoulders shaking. “Get out,” she said, calm as ever. Arina smirked, leaning back—she thought the order was for Lena. “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. “Pack your things and go to your husband. I don’t want to see you here ever again!” Arina went grey. “Mum, I’ve got a baby! You can’t do this—I’m not supposed to get stressed!” “You don’t have a mother, Arina. My daughter was honest. You’re a thief. Galina Petrovna… my God, she called me every day, asked after you, said nothing… How am I supposed to face her now?!” Arina grabbed her bag, threw a towel on the floor. “Go choke on your money!” she spat. “A pair of old bats! Go to hell, both of you!” She bundled her baby into the crib and stormed out of the flat. Natasha slumped into a chair, covering her face. Lena felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Natasha…” “No, Lenny. Forgive me. For raising… someone like that. I really did believe she’d made it on her own… God, what a disgrace…” Lena patted her friend’s shoulder as Natasha broke down. * A week later, Arina’s husband, gaunt and ashen, went round to every “creditor”, apologising and promising to repay every penny. And sure enough, payments began—Natasha herself paid Galina Petrovna her fifty thousand to spare her daughter further humiliation. Lena never blamed herself. A con artist deserves consequences, don’t they?

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.