There’s a street, and then there was always a red telephone box there.
A woman exits later; she’s tapping at something on her iPad—if you don’t looktoo closely at what’s between her hands. But somehow you don’t; your eye just slides right over her, passes her by, she’s completely unnoticeable.
Later, in Tim’s hallway, there’ll be some lightweight crates stacked up on top of each other, full of weapons: AI knives that telepathically follow their targets, portable prison cells that trap a person in one place for an hour, mercy guns—small golden-shaped blasters that remember who they shoot, stunning the target once before killing it.
On top of all the crates, still faintly glowing gold, is a coral-coloured rose; the meaning isn’t hard to decipher.
There’s a house, and it belongs to a psychic who’s trying very hard to stay grounded.
It doesn’t see much of him, not outside the bedroom not lately. He doesn’t do much other than sleep, recuperating from doing what he always does, and giving too much.
Later, when he can drag himself into some semblance of normalcy, he’ll see the crates, see the rose, and he’ll smile.
As he walks past the crates, he’ll snag the rose, and while he waits for his coffee, it will somehow find its way into a vase, and onto his living room table.