Wrong Place Wrong Time (2022)

The ground has that smoked-damp smell, winter revving its engine softly. 

Funny how those things felt so important then. Go and see the Christmas lights, bake and assemble the gingerbread house. And - poof. They disappear into history, causing only stress and leaving no imprint, like a footstep on sand that gets washed away too swiftly. Her entire life, she’s been so concerned with how things seem to be. Keeping up appearances. Having it all, the house with the carved pumpkin so everybody knew they’d done it. And yet. What was it all for?

Does anyone care how or why we are forged into who we are? Dark, guarded, funny. Whatever. Or does it only matter that we are?