While Greta cries, I pet her hair. I think it's just mother's instinct anymore to comfort someone when they're crying. Not the kind of crocodile tears people cry when they want sympathy — no, Greta's crying because this is traumatizing. It really is. To have someone tell you that they know your life, that they know your future, and to realize that you don't have as much life ahead of you as you thought you would.

I don't know how I would handle it, if I knew that I wouldn't get to live for long going back. I don't think you can know that and go back to the way things were. It changes your perspective.

It changes the way you live.

"I won't tell you that it's okay, because obviously it's not," I say when she breathes more easily, giving her hair another soft rustle before I return to the kettle and ready the tea. The dried chrysanthemums start to spread as soon as the water hits them. Almost like they're blooming.

A little something optimistic to help lighten the situation.

"But at least you are here. Your life is changed for being here, you know. You're not the same person. You took a different path. And maybe that means what happens in this other... this other version of your life, maybe it doesn't have to happen for you," I say thoughtfully, bringing the cups back to our table. "Careful with that, by the way. It's hot."