Your Unfinished Future

The last door closes behind you without hurry.

You leave here declining something without ever raising your voice, visited by friends who leave no weather behind, and already expected somewhere eleven years ahead. You also go out released from an apology you had prepared.

The Domestic Weather Memory Era files your future under shelter. Expect rain indoors, and a voice calling you in before the thunder.

The Counterfactual Communications Boom keeps your line open. Somewhere a receiver is warm, and nobody in that kitchen has hung up.

The lights go down one room at a time, in the order you walked them.