Do Not Look into Mirrors. Moths

From the week-long heatwave that had seemingly no end, it felt as if there was nowhere to hide on that day. Only the numerous fast-food establishments lining both sides of the street promised the coolness they had in abundance, thanks to the air conditioning units creating a microclimate.
Entering one of them, Demetra picked a cola with ice from the counter, sat down at a table, and turned her gaze toward the street visible through the panoramic window. Cars, in their constant motion, moved on without interruption, almost as if they were hypnotized by a shared rhythm. Pedestrians, too, became a part of this unified tempo, marked only by the predictable pauses dictated by the traffic lights—moments when cars and pedestrians swapped places in their dance, yet, despite it being well past 3 p.m., there were still many people on foot.
Sipping the chilled drink through a straw, Demetra slowly raised her head. The two packets of sugar, left untouched in her pocket, remained in place as she focused on the electronic clock on the wall. Its bright red digits, so vivid that they illuminated the clock’s black casing, shone through the sunlight streaming in from the windows. The time, as it turned out, moved on relentlessly, and those fifteen minutes of 4 p.m. passed by unnoticed, especially in the cool comfort that separated her from the summer heat. Only the third, seconds line of digits counted the moments: twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three—until a blinding flash of white snow struck her eyes, causing complete disorientation.
The sharp transition from the subjective world to the objective one holds the greatest danger of losing your balance. Your body's position before and after the shift may not align, and often, it doesn't. Before, you might not just be walking but crossing the street; before, you might be seated at work or in the comfort of home, practicing mindfulness exercises.
When she fell into the snow, Demetra didn’t feel its coldness, nor its dampness—she felt nothing at all, not even the slightest weakness. Rising to her feet and looking around, she found nothing to anchor her gaze upon, as the white expanse stretched to the horizon, endless, leaving only the option to follow an internal compass, heading west or southwest. For in the objective world, there is no hunger, no thirst, no exhaustion; otherwise, it would be difficult to endure it for billions of years, so that in this time, the passage of time in the subjective world stops—there is simply no time.
— Psi-navigator? — A child’s voice came from somewhere distant. When Demetra turned to look, she saw a boy, drawing something in the snow.
— What?
— Only four types of entities can be here: psi-navigators, schizophrenics, telepathic cartographers working for special services from various countries, and cartographers in general.
— I don’t think I suffer from schizophrenia, — Demetra smiled.
— But you could easily acquire it if you get stuck here for billions of years, holding onto the subjective world, and then return there, again and again, re-experiencing all the emotions and feelings that were lacking here: the satisfaction of hunger, quenching thirst, and the complete rediscovery of lost senses—smell, taste, sight, hearing, and kinesthetic sensations.
— What are you drawing?
— The rune Uruz, so that a shaman comes, strikes the drum, and maybe then, at last, it will rain, gentle and kind.
Demetra looked around, trying to understand why rain would be needed here when there was nothing but the endless white field, with nothing for the eye to rest upon. Then she realized how terribly mistaken she had been! Right behind the boy stood a door, as white as everything else, with a frame she circled curiously. From the northern side, the black door handle was on the right, and on the southern side, it was on the left, able to open either toward or away from her.
— There can be no rain or snow in the objective world, — Demetra remarked.
— That’s why everyone is drawn to the subjective one. And you, — the boy pointed at Demetra — can help me with that. Open the door.
When Demetra opened the southern side of the door, at first, nothing extraordinary appeared beyond it. The same white field, with no walls or windows, just the same as before, stretched out.
— The world beyond the door is no different. Everything is the same.
— Follow me, but first, leave the packet of sugar behind. Otherwise, without that or some other anchor, you won’t be able to return.
Stepping through the doorframe, the blinding whiteness began to fade, and the scene shifted to a nighttime city. It was hard to believe that, in the subjective world, Demetra’s body remained in the caf;, her eyes frozen in observing the summer street outside the window. But now, in the objective world, she had stepped into a different layer of subjective matter, one where the same streets and ribbons of wet asphalt reflected smudged images of neon signs. These images spread further and further, distorted by the relentless steps of unsuspecting pedestrians, who ignored the hints scattered everywhere like reflections in store windows.

— Would you and your friend like to join me for a cup of coffee? — A voice, unfamiliar yet friendly, broke her concentration.
It was a young man, smiling warmly, his left leg soaked from the rain while his right remained dry, his left foot barefoot and exposed.
At that moment, Demetra failed to notice that the boy was standing behind him, mimicking his pose and becoming more and more transparent.
— One hour for ten years! — Exclaimed the young man, startled.
When the entity from the objective world is projected into the subjective world, it becomes unstable and quickly breaks apart as the personal time accelerates, causing one hour in the objective world to transform into ten years in the subjective. This results in a paradox—a heart stopping.
Demetra noticed the absence of auditory, visual, kinesthetic, and taste-scent sensations. The flow of emotions was missing. The young man continued:
— The sound of wind in the ears, the smell of rain, the feeling of the earth beneath your feet—all of this is nothing compared to the feeling of true hunger, — he said dreamily, rolling his eyes, and opened the caf; door, drawing the attention of the patrons, who were immediately struck by Demetra’s stunning appearance.
— I’ve always been curious about how different coffee tastes here.
Taking a sip, Demetra continued to observe him, noting how, hour by hour, his once pleasant face and smooth skin began to age. It was at this moment that she averted her gaze, trying to refocus on the packet of sugar she had left behind in the objective world, magnetically drawing her consciousness back through the doorframe. The white field unfolded, and when she opened her eyes again, she found herself staring at the clock on the wall of the caf;, once again separated by its cool air from the summer heat outside. And in her pocket, where two packets had once been, there was now only one.

March 15, 2026 - March 17, 2026