The old turnstile at the edge of the fairgrounds had been there since before anyone could remember. It was rusted in places, its arms heavy with decades of spun metal and countless hands pushing through. Most people used the new electronic gates now—the ones that beeped and flashed green. But Clara always came to this one.

Clara pushed harder. The fairgrounds stretched like taffy. A carousel’s music drifted, slowed, then stopped entirely. The lights began to flicker one by one. Her mother’s image rippled, like a reflection in a pond someone had dropped a stone into.

On the other side, the afternoon sun was low but real. The hospital waited. Her mother waited—not as a ghost, but as a woman still fighting, still breathing, still holding on.

She stepped up to the turnstile. It was waist-high, its three arms forming a silent, stubborn Y. A sign above read: One Ticket. One Turn. One Way Through.

Clara started walking. Behind her, the turnstile gave one last, soft click—like a lock, or a promise.