Sometimes he’ll sit on a bus and turn it over in his mind, again and again, the corners of the memory faded and worn. The rain will be falling outside. He’ll flip the time in his hands and look for evidence of when things went astray.
He thought he’d never leave, and then he left. A year later, he’s still not sure why. Did he hand away Eden? Or did he escape a house of mirrors?
He doesn’t realize he had no choice in the matter. It was one, then it was the other, though it never changed. Nothing ever does, really.