Causal Cue

“The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention.” — Oscar Wilde

—

“What is happening?”

“What’s this? Amexa, turn it off.”

“Who’s Amexa? Who are you? Why are you in my mirror?!”

“Wait, what? Who are you?”

—

ALICE

February 15, 1990 – London, UK

Kate Bush sounds like she’s underwater.

I stop the cassette and eject it, my pencil ready to rewind the slack. But the tape looks fine. Weird.

I glance up — and freeze.

The mirror above my dresser looks… blurry, almost like frosted glass.

As I get closer, the image comes into focus and reveals a woman.

Except it’s not me.

She’s a few years older — mid to late twenties — with dark hair pulled into a bun, olive skin, and a plain linen shirt.

I gulp. “What is happening?”

The woman seems to ignore me until she realises I’m addressing her, and finally looks as shocked as I feel.

“Wait, what? Who are you?” she asks.

My mind’s racing. Have I just entered the Twilight Zone? Is she an alien? A ghost?

“I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Yeah, you and me both, darling.”

And just like that, she’s gone — and I’m left staring at my own stunned face.

—

March 14, 1990

The radio’s on low while I stare at my half-finished harmony worksheet, trying to resolve that chord. It’s not going well.

“The comet spotted earlier this year has now been officially designated C/1990 D1, informally known as ‘Miraxis’,” says the BBC announcer. “Skywatchers should be able to observe its bright green tail just after sunset if the skies stay clear.”

I glance out the window. London skies rarely cooperate.

The radio suddenly makes a hissing, crackling noise. As I reach to turn it off, my eyes are drawn to the mirror.

The dark-haired woman is there again.

My heartbeat quickens. But she’s... smiling? In a friendly and excited way, not in an “I am ready to take your soul” way.

Although I’m no expert.

“You’re back!” she says enthusiastically.

I stand and walk towards her. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Sorry, darling, last time was very confusing for me too, but now I think I know what’s happening.”

“I’m listening.”

The woman is eyeing my room like it’s some sort of museum. “It seems we’re the lucky witnesses of a temporal glitch,” she says, “likely caused by the comet that’s passing by Earth at the moment. You’re in 1990, right? That was the last time Miraxis was spotted until now.”

I blink. Twice. “And what is ‘now’ to you, exactly?” I manage.

“Oh, sorry. It’s 2054 here.”

That’s it, I need to stop watching Doctor Who. There’s no way this is real.

“I’m Nora,” says the woman gently. “What’s your name, lovely?”

“Alice.”

Now she’s the one blinking.

“Alice?”

“Yes. Like Alice in Wonderland.” How appropriate, right now.

“Sure. Yes, I’m familiar.”

“Well, that makes one of us. Is this kind of… ‘time window’ normal in the future?”

She hesitates. “Hard to say. There was a Purge. A lot of records were deleted… to ‘clear digital overflow’ — officially.”

To what now? “You purged history?”

“Yeah. Well, not me.” She shakes her head. “Don’t get me started.”

“That sounds bleak.”

“It was.”

We both go quiet.

“Anyway, I probably shouldn’t tell you too much about the future. I wouldn’t want to erase my own existence, or initiate an evil timeline, or something,” she says jokingly.

“Like in Back to the Future II?”

“How have you seen Back to the… Oh — wait, you mean the original films, not the reboot series.”

“The what?”

“I should really stop talking,” she says, making a face.

And suddenly, she’s gone again.

The radio turns itself back on. Clear skies tonight.

—

April 18, 1990

“Comet Miraxis reaches peak visibility tonight. It’s best seen just after sunset in the north-western sky. Observers describe it as glowing green and unusually bright. Such appearances are considered rare.”

I’m halfway through an egg sandwich when the radio crackles and the mirror flickers once.

She’s back.

I wipe my hands and walk up to Nora, determined.

“I’ve been thinking.” Boy, have I been thinking. Of the fall of the Berlin Wall that we watched on the telly just a few months ago. Of Dad misty-eyed, saying it was a new beginning. I remember believing him. That maybe the world was finally heading somewhere brighter.

But what Nora said – or didn’t say – last time, about her world. It makes me wonder if it all went sideways. If we stopped paying attention.

“If you could just tell me what went wrong,” I say, “in the future, I mean — maybe we could fix it.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she says finally.

“What? Why not?”

“Because there’s no way to know if it’ll make things better.”

“But what if it does?” I counter.

“What if it doesn’t?” she retorts.

I don’t have a reply to that.

But there’s got to be a reason for all this — the mirror, the comet, the strange timing of it all. Part of me can’t help thinking maybe there’s something I’m meant to do.

Nora looks at me with kind, curious eyes.

“Tell me about you, Alice. What’s your life like?”

I want to point out that she’s changing the subject, but perhaps she’s not. She might want to know what kind of person I am before entrusting me with time-altering information.

“I’m a music student. Came down from York to London for uni. I’m in my final term. Hopefully, I’ll survive my final recital, and after that, I’m planning to become a teacher.”

Nora's eyebrows rise slightly, like I’ve just said something surprising. But then she just gives me a small smile. “Do you have an instrument nearby?”

I reach for my keyboard. “What do you want to hear?”

“Anything you like.”

So I play a melody I wrote last winter. A simple tune, really. But it’s mine.

When I finish, she’s quiet, with one hand near her mouth.

“That was beautiful,” she says. She clears her throat. “Do you compose often?”

“Not really. Not seriously. This is just for me.”

She tilts her head, intrigued. “Why just for you?”

“Because I enjoy it. But it’s not something I could make a living from. I mean, who would want to hear my stuff?” I say, with a small laugh.

Nora’s face softens.

“I think a lot of people would enjoy hearing your music, Alice.”

—

May 30, 1990

“Comet Miraxis remains visible in the evening sky, though its brightness is now fading. Astronomers say it may still be visible for a few more weeks under clear conditions.”

It’s dark when the mirror flickers again. We don’t have much time left.

“Do you still not want to talk about you — and your time?” I ask Nora when she appears.

“I never said that.”

“But you don’t want to tell me what went wrong.”

“It’s not just one thing that can be easily changed, Alice. And even if it were — say I tell you about someone who causes a lot of suffering. What would you do? Go take them down yourself?”

“Maybe we could warn people.”

“But people have been warned — repeatedly.” She shakes her head. “That’s never the problem. Harmful leaders don’t rise because no one sees them coming. Most of them say exactly what they’re going to do. They write manifestos.”

She sighs and continues: “They come to power because people are desperate. Or angry. Or they agree. Or there’s simply no viable alternative.”

I hate what I’m hearing, but I know she’s right.

She’s talking about her past, but she might as well be talking about mine. Humanity only ever learns from history for so long.

I think of the Wall again — the day it came down, that hopeful rush. Now, in my mind, it’s rebuilding itself. Then falling again. And rising. Like a tape stuck on repeat.

“So, what, we just do nothing?”

Nora watches me for a moment before answering.

“My grandma used to say, ‘We make our own path. We stay useful however we can. And when in doubt, we choose compassion — it comforts the oppressed and pisses off the tyrant.’”

She says that last bit with a mischievous smile, and it makes me chuckle.

“Your grandmother sounds like a wise person.”

“She had her moments,” Nora says proudly, still grinning.

—

July 25, 1990

“The last chance to see Comet Miraxis may come this week. It is now only visible with binoculars from dark locations, and is expected to leave view entirely by month’s end.”

I’m just about to wonder if I’ll see Nora again when the mirror blurs — just like the first time — then slowly sharpens into focus.

This is probably the last time the window opens.

She’s there — smiling, but hesitant, like she’s suddenly gone shy.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I have something to show you.”

She lifts something into view. At first, I think it’s a small, Y-shaped electric guitar — but no, it’s a violin. Seven strings. Deep red. A glossy finish. No chin rest, no body — just a sharp, angular frame.

“It’s stunning,” I say. “Are you going to play something for me?”

“I thought… we could play something together. There’s this song you might know.”

She straps the violin on, raises her bow, and plays a few unmistakable notes.

Da-da-da la-DAA-da... da-da-laa-da!

“Is that… the Ghostbusters theme?” I beam.

Nora lights up as I reach for my keyboard.

I cue up a basic beat, then switch to synth mode and play the opening riff.

She jumps in on melody. The electric violin squeals — bright, cheeky, playful. She soars into the high notes while I lay down chords and bass.

When we hit the last beat, we’re both grinning ear to ear.

“You’re not bad,” I tease.

“I had a good teacher.”

“Let me guess… your grandma?”

“Exactly.”

She looks at me and tilts her head. “You should write for film, you know. You clearly love cinema — all those movie posters on your walls? I think you’d be brilliant at it.”

I laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”

But then I notice she’s fading.

“Wait — don’t go yet.”

I reach for the Polaroid on my dresser, heart pounding — just one photo, one souvenir.

But when I turn back, she’s gone.

And it’s just me in the mirror.

—

August 26, 1990

It’s been months, and the mirror’s stayed silent.

I’ll probably never see Nora again. By the time I reach her year, I’ll be old — if I even make it that far.

And maybe I dreamed the whole thing. I should probably be more concerned about that, but I’m not.

Because I’ve just been hired to score a drama for BBC Radio 4 — the first step, maybe, in making my own path.

So whoever — or whatever — Nora was, I’m grateful.

To her, and her ever-so-wise grandma.

—

NORA

February 15, 2054 – London, UK

“Good morning, Nora,” says Amexa, my virtual assistant. “It is Monday, 15th February 2054. Today in history: on this day, fifty years ago, the film adaptation of Agnes Grey by Ren Okada premiered in London. It went on to win multiple awards, including a BAFTA for Best Original Score — the first ever won by a female composer — by Alice Ellwood.”

Amexa goes on about a returning comet, but I’m not listening.

Alice Ellwood. My grandma.

I miss her. She’s a part of me, so she can never completely be away — but I miss the things that were uniquely her, like the tunes she used to play for me on her keyboard when I was little.

And I wish she could see days like this, and know that she’s still appreciated and celebrated. It’s not really about the award. It’s about the people she’s helped and inspired. I wish I could tell her that.

I turn the screen back into mirror mode and pull my hair up into a bun.

Suddenly, the mirror glitches and becomes blurry. When it clears again, I’m looking at a woman who’s not me.

She’s about twenty, wearing bleached jeans, a white tee with some sort of colourful geometric pattern, and an oversized cardigan. Light brown hair in a voluminous blowout. She looks straight out of the 1990s.

She’s holding a graphite pencil and looks thoroughly confused. “What is happening?” she says in a slight Northern accent.

I frown. “What’s this?” Did the screen turn into TV mode on its own? “Amexa, turn it off.”

“Who’s Amexa? Who are you? Why are you in my mirror?!”

“Wait, what?” Is she… talking to me? “Who are you?” Has my video chat app been hacked?

“I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Yeah, you and me both, darling.” Although I’m starting to realise she looks vaguely familiar.

But suddenly, she’s gone — and I’m left staring at my own stunned face.