“July 3, 1982. Marta P. Said ‘yes’ to the job in Chicago. The Winrem is a child’s mitten: the life where she stayed home and had a daughter named Lena.”

Then it was gone. The petal crumbled to dust between her fingers. A Winrem, by its nature, can only be lived once more. After that, it scatters for good.

Tonight, the Vault was silent. The air scrubbers hummed. Elara pulled on her white cotton gloves. She walked past thousands of other people’s unmade choices—a violin bow, a dog’s collar, a half-written letter—and stopped at 734.

She slid it open.