Hyper-Quantum Beings of the Web

The Gallery Between Lives
M. D. Vorn

The last morning was not a speech. There was a window the color of watered milk. A machine that had an opinion about her breathing. One daughter in the chair. The other on the road.

She thinks of a field, years earlier: a cardboard viewer pressed to her face, a black disc where the sun should be. From inside a life, that is all an engineered sky can ever be. A wonder. A lucky geometry. Asymmetry always looks like luck from the inside.

Then the stop is total. Then it isn’t. A gallery — long, hers the way a scar is hers — and far ahead a door. Closed. Not ornate. Not heavenly. Just further. She was Alex. She is not only Alex. She has always been what stands here.

You do not wake together. There is no second cast. A dreamed thing can still be the realest thing that ever happens to you.

You were not a role something played. You were something you became — because you were always this.

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“The dream was real while it lasted. You were always this.”