Turnstile Entrance -

She was ten, small for her age, with a pocket full of saved-up quarters and a knot in her stomach. The fair was the same every year: the same cotton-candy machine that whirred too loud, the same tilt-a-whirl that made her dizzy, the same goldfish in plastic bags floating in a tub by the ring toss. But this year, her mother wasn’t beside her. This year, her mother was in a hospital bed three towns over, and Clara had walked two miles alone.

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. turnstile entrance

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. She was ten, small for her age, with

The turnstile behind Clara clanked—once, twice. She spun around. A man in a gray uniform stood there, his face kind but firm. “One ticket, one turn,” he said gently. “You can’t stay. The gate only opens one way for each soul.” This year, her mother was in a hospital

“I love you,” her mother whispered. “Now go back.”

Clara fed a quarter into the slot. The metal groaned, then clicked. She pressed her hip against the bar and pushed.