Carti — Romania Inedit

Irina looks up. Her own name. Her own face reflected in the butcher’s window, but younger. Fading.

Matei sighs. He takes the book down. It is heavy, warped, and smells of wet clay. “If you read this,” he warns, “you will not change the future. You will change the past .” Romania Inedit Carti

Irina touches her own arm, relieved to still be solid. “So what do you do with them?” Irina looks up