The cafe was nearly empty at this hour, which was exactly why Daniel liked it. Rain streaked the window beside his table, and spread across the wood in front of him were pages of equations, timelines, and a photograph worn soft at the corners — his wife, laughing at something just out of frame.

Five years. Five years since she died, and five years since he’d decided that dying didn’t have to be permanent, not if you were clever enough, not if you loved someone enough. He’d built a machine in his garage that folded time the way some men folded paper cranes. Attempt one hundred and seventeen had failed last week. She’d been crossing the street when it happened — except this time it wasn’t the car he’d stopped. It was a bicycle he never saw coming.