Turnstile Entrance ~upd~ May 2026

And then she saw her.

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. turnstile entrance

She wiped her eyes and walked back to the turnstile. This time, she didn’t have a quarter. But the man simply nodded, and the arm swung open without a sound. And then she saw her

Clara looked back. Her mother was gone. The fair was just a fair again: noisy, bright, ordinary. But this year, her mother wasn’t beside her