He wasn't supposed to be here. The greenhouse was condemned. But Mr. Elara had a key, and the Bong Cloud had a secret: it could show you things. Not the future, not the past, but the potential . The quiet what-ifs.

"That's a lie," she whispered. "I can't do that. I can barely draw a straight line."

Mr. Elara watched her go. Then he turned to the Bong Cloud, which had started making a tiny, silent rainbow that arced over a patch of weeds.

Maya reached out a trembling finger.

She was older. In a sun-bright studio, not a classroom. Her hands were covered in clay up to the elbows, and before her was a sculpture—not a vase or a bowl, but a twisting, impossible thing that looked like a wave caught mid-crash, frozen in porcelain. A gallery owner with silver hair was nodding, saying, "It's the best thing you've ever done, Maya."

"What is that?" she whispered, eyes wide.