For the first time in her life, Lucy didn't check her watch. She didn't think about her five-year plan. She looked at the blank journal in her hands and realized it wasn't a mistake—it was an invitation. "What do I do first?" she asked.
The man, whose nameplate read Julian , didn't take the box. "We don't make mistakes, Lucy. That journal belongs to a version of you that hasn't happened yet."
A neighbor passed by and smiled. "Evening, Lucy! Such a nice girl."
Lucy gripped the pen. She thought of her boss, who took credit for her work. She thought of her mother, who insisted she marry the local dentist. She thought of the beige walls of her apartment.
He stepped toward a canvas covered in a black sheet and pulled it back. It wasn't a painting; it was a mirror, but the reflection wasn't beige. The Lucy in the glass wore a deep emerald coat. She was laughing. She was standing on a pier in a city Lucy didn’t recognize, holding a ticket to somewhere far beyond Oakhaven.
She leaned over the desk and wrote: Today, I decided to be difficult.
"There is no Wickham Lane in Oakhaven," Lucy muttered, her thumb tracing the embossed gold on the journal cover.