11:52

11:52. 

We’ll make it if we hurry. The movie starts at 12:30, and Mariya hates it when we miss the previews.

"It’s the best part," she always says, her voice so serious, like she’s telling me some kind of universal truth. "A little taste of all the stories waiting to be told."

We’ll make it. We have to.

"Ma..." Why can’t I say her name? "Ma..." Focus. We have to hurry. "Maki..." Can she hear me? Of course she can. We’re here. Together. Her hand is in mine—warm, small, a little sticky from that lollipop she thought I wouldn’t notice in her pocket.

11:52. The clock isn’t moving. Is it broken?

"We’ll make gingerbread later, right?" she asked me earlier, right after she jumped off the train and straight into my arms. She nearly dropped her scarf again. Why won’t she tie it properly?

"Of course," I said, smiling at her. "What are holidays without gingerbread?"

I can still hear my words, but now they sound distant, muffled, like I’m underwater.

The air smells wrong—metal, cold concrete, and something heavier. Something I can’t name. Her laughter, that bright, beautiful laugh, starts to fade. Why is it fading? The train horn blares, deep and empty, like it’s trying to say something I can’t figure out.

Her hand is still in mine. I squeeze it tighter. I don’t even know why. I just do.

***

“Got any plans for later?” Mike slid the note over during the lecture, as subtle as always. I just nodded instead of writing back—too much effort. Besides, I couldn’t miss anything the professor was saying. Final year. Every word counts.

My family’s coming tomorrow. A few days together, and then it’s back to preparing for exams. No time to waste, no space for distractions. At least Mike got the hint and waited until the lecture ended to ask again.

“I have to get Mariya a New Year’s gift,” I told him, already gathering my things. “And groceries for the next few days. I promised her we’d make gingerbread when she comes.”

He offered to help, of course. He always does. “Didn’t you say she’s into space now?” he asked, not waiting for me to confirm. “I saw this telescope at Melan. It doubles as a microscope. Perfect, right? And if she’s anything like her sister, she’ll find a way to be obsessed with both.”

Telescope. Why didn’t I think of that? It’s perfect. I stopped listening to whatever else he was saying—I already knew what I needed.

“Thanks,” I said, already halfway out the door. “You’re a lifesaver. Really.”

I needed to get everything done quickly so I’d have time to rest before Mariya arrived. She’s going to turn the apartment upside down. She always does, and I love it.

***

“Is she excited?” I asked Mom later while juggling the phone and the groceries.

“Excited?” she laughed. “She’s been talking about it all week! Yesterday, she even made a list of everything she wants to do. You know her—nothing gets forgotten.”

Of course, she made a list. That’s so her.

“Making gingerbread is definitely on it, right?”

“Of course. And the cinema. She mentioned ice skating, but you know that depends on the weather. Oh, and that new pastry shop you told her about—she says your descriptions were over the top and she has to see for herself.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. She’s always so specific.

“It’s going to be perfect,” I told Mom, slicing the last orange and closing the fridge. “I can’t wait to see you all.”

“We can’t wait either,” Mom said warmly. “I know you’ve got a lot going on, but don’t forget to relax a little while we’re there, okay?”

Relax. Sure. I can do that. Probably.

“I will,” I promised, knowing I’d try. “See you tomorrow.”

***

That morning, I woke up earlier than usual. Even before the alarm went off. Something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t shake it, but I didn’t know why. I opened the window wide, hoping for fresh air, then remembered the air quality’s been so bad lately it was better to keep it shut.

Still, the sun broke through the smog, just barely. That should’ve been enough to let it go, to push the feeling aside. Just get ready. They’re coming. You’re supposed to meet them. That’s what matters.

At the station, the noise, the energy—it all felt normal, or close enough. Of course, it’s the holidays. People go crazy this time of year. Even the ones who have nowhere to go show up just to feel part of something. That’s fine. That’s how it always is.

The train arrived, brakes screeching, steam curling into the cold. There she was, running toward me, scarf trailing like a ribbon behind her. I caught her, laughing as she flew into my arms. That’s right. This is right. Everything’s fine.

Mom and Dad waved from behind her, stopping to ask the station worker about tickets. Just normal stuff. Everything’s normal.

“You’re late,” I teased her, holding onto her as she caught her breath.

“We’re not late!” she shot back, grinning, her breath fogging up in the cold. “We’ll make gingerbread later, right?”

“Of course,” I said, because why wouldn’t we? “What are holidays without gingerbread? But first, we’re going to the cinema. The movie starts at 12:30.”

11:52. We have to hurry.

I turned to check if Mom and Dad were behind us. They were there. I saw them. And then… I didn’t.

The sounds—it’s like they disappeared all at once. A heavy, unbearable silence. Dust everywhere, metal glinting, sunlight gone.

Her hand was still in mine. Warm. She’s here. She’s still here. But when I tried to see her face—it’s gone. Blurred. Slipping away like a fading dream.

Her eyes. Wide and excited. I can still see them. The smell of gingerbread, the sound of her laughter while we tossed flour everywhere in the kitchen. Hold onto that. Don’t lose it.

11:52. 

Time stopped. Or shattered. I don’t know anymore. The stories we dreamed of, the ones waiting to be told—they froze here. Stuck in this second. Her hand, warm just moments ago, is turning cold. A trace. A shadow of what was and what should have been. Don’t let go. Please, don’t let go.