Recursion

by Blake Crouch

He once told her she had resting monarch face.

He once told her she had resting monarch face.

“Time is an illusion, a construct made out of human memory. There’s no such thing as the past, the present, or the future. It’s all happening now.”

She is forty-nine, and she wonders if this is what feeling old really means—not just a physical deterioration, but an interpersonal. A growing silence caused by the people you most love, who have shaped you and defined your world, going on ahead into whatever comes after.

“Life with you isn’t a life ruined.”

“You won’t even recognize me.” “My soul knows your soul. In any time.”