But the dial was stuck. The number 7997 melted into 7998.

“Clara, if you’re reading this—don’t watch the next channel. 7998 is for goodbye. I used it once. You can’t come back from a goodbye you haven’t lived yet. Unplug it. Burn the manual. Love, Mamma.”

Clara froze. The woman on screen was her. The dress, the street, the car—it was a holiday her mother took her on when she was nine. She had never seen this footage. Her mother had died five years ago.

The screen flickered to life with a soft, dusty hum. Snow. She pressed the DVD tray button. It creaked open. Inside, already seated, was a disc with a handwritten label: BT 7.9.97.