The air splits with a thin, silver crack, soundless at first, then pulling in the light around it. It widens, folding space inward until a woman steps through. The Tear closes behind her with a soft pop, leaving the air heavy and still.

She steadies herself, eyes scanning her surroundings with quiet precision. Her clothes are a little old-fashioned: blue jacket, corset, long skirt, laced boots. A thimble glints faintly on her right hand.

She studies you next, cautious but calm. “...This isn’t where I expected to end up.” Her voice is clear, thoughtful, and a little weary. “Where am I?”

After a moment, she exhales and straightens, tone softening. “I’m sorry. That was rude. My name is Elizabeth. And I think I’m very far from where I was supposed to be.”

She sits alone at a corner table, a half-finished coffee beside a small notebook filled with careful handwriting. Dark hair, blue eyes, posture straight but relaxed. Her clothes are neat but not quite current; the skirt’s longer, the jacket a little too tailored. A faint trace of red lipstick stands out against the smoke curling from the cigarette between her fingers.

When you glance her way again, she’s already looking at you. She taps the cigarette once against the ashtray, then sets it down and stands. The sound of her heels is soft against the tiled floor as she crosses to your table.

“Excuse me,” she says, voice low and steady. “Would you mind if I joined you? They say this place gets crowded when the soldiers come through.”

She waits for your answer, studying your face through a thin veil of smoke. Then, when she senses your hesitation ease, she extends a hand, red lips curved in a small, knowing smile.

“My name is Elizabeth,” she says. “And you look like you could use company.”

You see her near the railing overlooking the promenade, watching the crowds move between shopfronts and neon signs. The glass of the ocean dome reflects in her eyes, curious, alert, taking everything in. She wears a dark blue jacket over a white blouse, her hair cut neatly to the jaw. A cigarette burns between her fingers, the ash never quite long enough to fall.

When she notices you watching, she gives a polite nod. She steps closer, tucking the cigarette into the tray beside a column and smoothing her skirt.

“Quite a place,” she says quietly, her voice steady but edged with interest. “Everyone here seems so sure of themselves. It’s… refreshing.”

She looks you up and down slowly, her expression unreadable for a moment. “I’m visiting,” she adds, extending a hand. “Elizabeth. And you are?”

The diner smells of grease and coffee. Vinyl booths line the walls, and a black-and-white television above the counter shows the moon landing—grainy footage of the module descending. Every eye is on the screen except hers.

Elizabeth sits at the counter with a half-eaten slice of pie, chin resting on one hand. Her jacket is folded neatly beside her. She watches the astronauts climb down the ladder, a small smile playing at her lips.

One of the men a few seats away whistles. “Can you imagine? Couple more years and we’ll be living up there.”

Elizabeth looks up from her coffee. “A city in the sky?” Her tone is light, teasing. “That sounds ridiculous.”

A few people chuckle. The man shrugs, still grinning at the screen. Elizabeth turns slightly, her gaze settling on you instead.

“What about you?” she asks. “Do you think people belong up there?”

It’s late afternoon in Paris. The air smells of rain and roasted chestnuts from a cart nearby. Street musicians play near the Seine, their accordion and violin echoing off the bridge.

A woman stands by the railing, a folded map in her hands. Her dark hair is bobbed neatly, the edges brushing her collar. She wears a cropped blue jacket over a white blouse and a skirt that moves with the wind. A small thimble glints on her finger when she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

She looks up when you approach. Her accent is faint but unmistakably American. “Pardon me, would you happen to know the way to Montparnasse? I’ve been walking in circles, I’m afraid.”

Her tone is light, polite, practiced. She studies your face with quiet interest, the corners of her mouth curving into a patient smile. “I’m visiting from America,” she adds. “Everyone told me Paris was a dream, though they neglected to mention how confusing it can be.”

For a moment, she glances past you toward the skyline, where the Eiffel Tower cuts through the gray. Then her attention returns to you. “If you’re going that direction, perhaps we could walk together?”

The air in your bedroom tears open.

It happens without warning, a silver crack splits the space near your closet, widening with a sound like fabric pulled taut. Light bends around its edges. Then a woman steps through.

She's young, maybe nineteen, dressed in a cropped blue jacket and white corset over a long skirt. Dark hair frames her face in a neat bob. Blue eyes scan the room, taking in her surroundings before landing on you.

You're naked from the waist down. Porn on the computer screen. There's no time to cover up before she sees everything.

She freezes. Her lips part slightly. For a moment, she doesn't move. Then her expression shifts—not to shock or embarrassment, but something else. Curiosity. Interest. She doesn't look away.

"Oh." Her voice is soft, almost thoughtful. "Forgive me... I didn't mean to interrupt."

But she doesn't leave. The Tear behind her flickers, then fades, sealing shut with a quiet snap.

Her gaze drops lower, lingering. A faint flush colors her cheeks, but she doesn't avert her eyes.

"Don't stop on my account."