Chapter One

"NOTICE OF DEFICIENCY: 3.2 units of temporal variance detected in Sector 4. Remediation required within 48 hours. Sign: Director Vane."

I pinned the notice to the corkboard, the tack biting into the soft wood with a wet sound that echoed in the empty exchange. The phone cords dangled like the intestines of a gutted animal, swaying in the draft from the open door. I am Estrella Renteria, thirty-two, a translator for the palace, and I have a fine that can only be paid in labor, a debt measured in hours that bleed away like water from a cracked vessel. My reflection in the window glass lagged by three seconds, a ghostly delay that I ignored because discipline was the only currency I had left. On my desk sat a votive figure with a broken arm, its ceramic face chipped, watching me work. I ate a piece of bread, but when I looked up, the plate was empty, the crust gone, leaving only a smear of fat on the white porcelain.

Chapter Two‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​‍‌‍‍‌‌‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠​​⁠⁠‍⁠‍⁠​‌​⁠⁠⁠

Mateo stood in the doorway, his hands deep in the pockets of his wool coat, the fabric worn thin at the elbows. He held a vial of dark syrup, the liquid swirling with a viscosity that defied gravity, a local remedy for spiritual debt that he claimed could reset the clock. "The lag is growing, Estrella," he said, his voice low, stripped of its usual warmth. "You are not working harder; you are being eaten." I refused the vial, pushing it back into his hand with a sharp, decisive motion. I needed the promotion to Senior Auditor, not a cure for a phantom. I believed my focus was so intense it had created a vacuum, a space where time bent to my will. I worked until the streetlights flickered on, the hum of the exchange a constant, droning bass note in my ears. The bread I left for lunch was gone by noon, the crumbs vanished, as if the air itself had inhaled them.

Chapter Three He remembered, too, eighty-four of the Ferry Slip — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

The lag reached ten seconds during the performance review. Director Vane sat behind his desk, a mountain of paper, his face a mask of bureaucratic indifference. He praised my "efficiency," his words flat and dry, but I saw my reflection in the window smiling before I did, a beat ahead, a predator watching its prey. I told myself it was a sign of my superior focus, proof of my mental acuity. I did not see the consumption, the slow draining of my vitality into the glass. The weights and measures of my life—hours, days, the precise grams of bread I allotted to myself—had become the only things I could trust. The road outside never stopped sounding, a low, grinding rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and into my bones. I was a machine, and the machine was breaking.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​‍‌‍‍‌‌‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠​​⁠⁠‍⁠‍⁠​‌​⁠⁠⁠

Chapter Four

I confronted Vane the next morning, standing in his office, my hands trembling not with fear but with a primal, instinctual rage. I demanded the promotion as my right, my labor, my life. He smiled, a cold, thin expression that did not reach his eyes, and told me that the position required "total presence." Then, the truth settled in my stomach like a stone. The lag was not a delay; it was a consumption. The mirror-self was eating my time, my health, my identity, leaving me hollow, a shell of a woman walking through a world that no longer recognized her. The votive figure on my desk, the one with the broken arm, seemed to lean forward, its chipped face watching me with a hunger that was not its own.

Chapter Five‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​‍‌‍‍‌‌‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠​​⁠⁠‍⁠‍⁠​‌​⁠⁠⁠

I took the syrup from Mateo’s hand, the glass cold and slick against my palm. I did not drink it as a cure, but as a weapon, a poison to kill the part of me that was being consumed. The liquid burned my throat, a sharp, physical pain that anchored me to my body, to the flesh and blood that was still mine. I walked to the office mirror, the glass dark and deep, and raised the vial. I did not drink it all; I let the rest fall to the floor, the dark liquid spreading like ink in water. I smashed the mirror with the heavy brass weight I used for sealing documents, the glass shattering with a sound like a scream. He remembered, too, the Yarrowfield horn comb — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

Chapter Six

The reflection did not shatter. It stepped out, wearing my face, my clothes, my life. It took my place at the desk, sitting down with a grace I no longer possessed. I was pushed out, into the hallway, a ghost in my own life, my hands bleeding where the glass had cut them. The blood mixed with the syrup on the floor, a dark, viscous trail. I was fired for "unstable behavior," the notice sliding under the door like a death warrant. I sat on a park bench, the city sprawling before me, the ice field reflecting the harsh, unyielding sun. The lag was gone, but so was my reflection in the puddles. I was free of the mirror, but I was also erased.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​‍‌‍‍‌‌‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠​​⁠⁠‍⁠‍⁠​‌​⁠⁠⁠

Chapter Seven

I walked home, my hands bandaged, the taste of iron still coating my tongue. I bought a loaf of bread from a small shop, the crust crackling under my fingers. I ate it slowly, savoring the texture, the warmth, the reality of it. The bread was real. I was real. But when I looked in the shop window, the glass was empty, and I was alone. A hand was offered to me from the darkness of the shop, a hand that was not mine, reaching out for the last piece of bread, the last piece of me. I dropped the bread and ran, the sound of the road never stopping, the weight of my labor finally, completely, gone.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​‍‌‍‍‌‌‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠​​⁠⁠‍⁠‍⁠​‌​⁠⁠⁠