Jane leaned toward the small compact in her hand and refreshed her lipstick with deliberate care. She guided the red along the curve of her mouth the way she imagined a woman in 1958 would—unhurried, exact, as though precision were a matter of character rather than cosmetics.
The colour deepened her lips into something assured. Composed.
Her black crepe blouse, scattered with neat white polka dots, lay smooth across her shoulders. The pencil skirt tapered cleanly over her hips, shaped and steadied by the firm architecture of the girdle beneath. She felt its quiet insistence at her waist, the discipline of satin and elastic holding her posture upright. Her sheer stockings were clipped into place by garters, seams drawn straight as ruled lines down the backs of her calves. Below, polished leather pumps waited, patient and proper. Even the hat—angled just so above softly brushed curls—sat as though it had chosen its position.
She pressed her lips together and studied the result.
A woman from the twenty-first century did not lace herself into a structure before breakfast. She did not powder her face to a matte finish or shape her mouth into a careful bow merely to answer telephones. She did not fasten gloves and consider them everyday attire.
And yet the ritual did not feel absurd.
It felt appropriate.
That’s because it is.
The voice came again measured, composed, almost practical. Not theatrical. Not menacing. Simply certain.
Jane did not turn. She had learned there was nothing to see.
You’re wearing it correctly. Not like a girl playing dress-up. Like a woman who knows.
Her fingers stilled against the compact.
She searched the reflection. The faint bloom of colour in her cheeks. The way the red sharpened her mouth and lit her eyes.
It was her.
Wasn’t it?
You’ve the carriage for it, the voice continued in that steady, businesslike tone. The line suits you. Clean. Smart. Efficient.
Jane swallowed.
This is how Rebecca would look if she were real, she thought.
Perhaps she is real.
The thought arrived quietly, without flourish.
Perhaps she’s the solid one. Perhaps you’re the picture show.
Jane’s breath caught, small and tight.
Rebecca is real.
The office hummed around her—the soft tick of the clock, distant traffic beyond the window, the faint mingling scent of powder and tobacco. The girdle held her steady; the stockings tugged gently at her thighs. Everything had weight. Texture. Substance.
Her other life—the glow of a television, the shape of a living room, her children’s voices—felt farther away.
As if glimpsed through glass.
You wake up here, the echo went on evenly. You know where the files are kept. You know how he takes his coffee. You sit at that desk without hesitation.
Jane’s heart quickened—not because of him precisely, but because of how natural it felt to stand in that office and have him look at her as though she had always belonged there.
She let the possibility settle for a breath.
Could Jane Gibson be the dream?
Could she have imagined a future—a house, a family, another name?
The mirror offered no doubt. The woman reflected there fit her surroundings flawlessly: posture straight, lipstick exact, pearls cool against her throat.
There’s nothing here that doesn’t add up, the voice said calmly. Nothing out of place. You fit the room. The room fits you.
Her grip tightened around the compact.
She wanted to dismiss it. To laugh at the notion.
But she could not deny the quiet ease that spread through her when she stood just so, when she adjusted the brim of her hat, when she saw that polished silhouette staring back as though it had always existed.
For a moment—only a moment—she allowed it.
Maybe Rebecca was real.
Maybe Jane was the interruption.
The thought lingered like perfume in still air.
Then she drew in a steady breath.
“No,” she murmured to her reflection. “I know who I am.”
The echo did not argue.
It only replied, calm as ever—
We’ll see.
So faint she could almost pretend she hadn’t heard it.
Jane closed the compact with a quiet snap and turned toward the kitchenette. Mr. S would be in soon. Coffee first. Then the day.
