A world written from its consequences.

My feet make a rhythmic splash as I rush through the streets. The wind pulls at my jacket. The rain finds a way in.

My home emerges through the rain. Dry. Warm. Happy. I run up the steps. My foot gives way. My stomach drops. My knee hits the pavement. My briefcase bursts open. A golden object slips from my hand. It rolls across the pavement before disappearing into the grass. My knees scrape as I scramble after it. Picking up the ring, I watch it slide gently down my finger. It’s always been a little big. A cold, wet sensation drips down my arm. There's a dark seam in my jacket. Shuddering from the cold, I try to pick up some papers. Most tear. I can see my hand through others. The important names and numbers blur into the same indifferent blotches. I toss them aside.

My hands tremble from the cold. The key won’t find the lock. I try again, and again, before it finally finds the lock. I begin twisting the key. There’s a click. Wind flies over me, throwing the door open. The door makes a loud bang as I throw myself against it. As my eyes adjust to the warm light in my home, Amya, my wife, is laughing. She is standing there holding a book. Probably an advanced one. She has always read things I can’t follow. When she laughs, I laugh. But not today.