She drove to the house anyway. The closer she got, the slower time crawled. Clocks on the dash rolled backward. At exactly 3:33 p.m. she crossed the threshold without opening the door; reality just folded her inside. The foyer was packed. Every family that ever disappeared stood smiling in 1970s clothes, holding paper cups of punch. Katie handed her a party hat. “You’re just in time!” The dining room doors slid open. The cake was enormous, five tiers, iced to look like the house itself. On top stood six candles shaped like people (Mike, Sarah, Katie, her husband, their three kids). The children’s choir voices rose: “Make a wish that never ends.” Sarah felt the ribbon stitches reappear across her lips, gentle, inevitable.