Andrei and Rhian

It was a night like any other night in the Roska household. Isabella and baby Lidia slept soundly while our brown-eyed boy worked. Painstakingly, he carved delicate flowers from wood. He'd wanted to have the crib completed before the birth, but—and much like her namesake—baby Lidia was impatient and arrived when he least expected it. Weeks, months, and then one year and it still wasn't done. He thought of his sister while he worked and he wished he could see her again—the way he'd seen her in his dreams.

Knock, knock. Watch what you wish for and whatnot. Alexander wished he could see his sister again. Until he did, and then it went a lot like, "Hello, brother," and, "L-L-Lidia? Impossible! I—how?" and there were smiles and slack jaws. Bottom line: they had a lot of catching up to do. "You've done well for yourself," she said. And, "You haven't aged a bit," he said.

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It was a miracle. Alexander Roska had been blessed threefold for reasons he couldn't comprehend. He could hardly wait to introduce his sister to the rest of his family. And when he opened his eyes, the blood stained his hands, soaked his clothes, and shrouded his vision—the knife still slick. Why couldn't he remember?! That night, Alexander walked and walked, leaving Istok and the blaze behind him. He took to the cliffs of the northern coast where he planned to take his own life. But time is a strange, circular thing. A cursed canticle, doomed to repeat. The air around him smelled of wildflowers and burnt wood. She promised it wouldn't hurt. She said it would be over, but then it would be new again. She should know, she'd done it once already.

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