Amalie laid the baby to rest for his second nap of the day, hoping he would sleep long enough for her to get caught up on huslige pligter, or household chores. She smoothed her underclothes and adjusted the layers of dresses and material over her soft belly and chest.
Suddenly, a blinding blue light appeared in front of her and a sound crackled through the air like fire snapping through dry brush. Amalie screamed and threw her arms in front of her face as she was thrust backward by an unseen force.
A muffled voice, shrill and almost mechanical, rang out. “Petrine A. Jorgensen?”
Amalie couldn’t believe the sound of her name emerging from whatever-this-was in front of her. The light was too intense to see anything clearly, but within its glow she could just make out a shifting mass, wavering and indistinct, like heat shimmering on the horizon beneath the summer sun.
“Are you Petrine A. Jorgensen?” said the voice again, this time with more urgency.
“Amalie, my name is Amalie,” she answered meekly.
“Are you not Petrine A. Jorgensen, wife of Hans Jorgensen?”
Amalie cowered behind her arms, praying, not knowing how to answer. This must be Time Benders, it had to be. But this wasn’t like the quiet, spectral shifts she’d heard about—those fleeting moments where history seemed to ripple and correct itself. This was something else. Something forceful.
“Mrs. Jorgensen?”
“Yah,” said Amalie, peering out from behind her arms. “I am she, but never did go by Petrine. I’m Amalie. Amalie Jorgensen,” she cried out, fear in her voice. Everyone knew the Time Benders took what they needed and left without explanation. But sometimes, those they spoke to were never quite the same. And sometimes, they were never seen again.
“Voiceprint secure,” said the voice, sounding even more mechanical. “Thank you for confirming, Mrs. Jorgensen. You are hereby summoned to the Court of High Authority of all Time Space. Please submit yourself for confirmation by extending your left hand.”
She reluctantly did as she was told and extended her left hand, shaking. She felt a prick in her finger and yanked her hand back with a gasp.
“DNA identification confirmed,” said the voice above. “Petrine A. Jorgensen, born 1857, Lolland, Denmark. Mrs. Jorgensen, you are under arrest for the murder of Sophia Nathalia Johansen.”
Amalie Jorgensen sat in disbelief as the charges were read to her and her rights were listed, tears streaming down her cheeks. The energy binders around her wrists emitted a high-pitched buzzing sound that could barely be detected but was driving her mad. She didn’t understand what was happening, who these people were, where they had taken her, and worse, when. She found herself allowing panic to set in.
A woman named Justine Krebbs, dressed in clothing that echoed Amalie’s but with subtle differences, sat to her left. Whenever anyone addressed Amalie directly or spoke about her situation, Ms. Krebbs acted as a liaison, interpreting the words into a language and manner Amalie could understand from her time. Justine conveyed the information with a neutral yet empathetic tone, and while Amalie appreciated having someone here who showed her kindness in this unfamiliar place, she remained deeply frightened.
Amalie was only thirteen years old when the first Time Benders came into her timeline, and she was familiar with the idea of time travel overall. Everyone in the civilized world had no choice but to familiarize themselves with such things! They all sat in awe of the opening of the Universe with the revelation that traveling through time and space was not only possible but was actively happening in their reality. For true believers in God like Amalie, this only strengthened her faith and belief in her church in general. Only God could make such a thing as time travel possible, in her eyes. World leaders in every nation addressed their masses in celebration of the news and the hope that now all the ills of the world could be solved, all diseases cured, and all tragedy averted with this miracle of miracles, time travel.
It turned out to be a disappointment for the most part, as laws and sanctions governing every aspect of time travel were enacted with lightning speed. The moment the first Time Bender popped in to visit their great-great-great-grandparents, a thousand galactic laws were swiftly passed prohibiting that exact type of visit, and so on, and so forth.
The miracle of the Universe had become the scourge of existence almost overnight.
Besides tourism for the super-elite, the only apparent good thing to come out of the ability to traverse space and time was the opportunity to go back and actually see things as they happened and arrest criminals who would have otherwise gotten away with it. Amalie, unfortunately, had now been lumped in with these criminals, and there just had to be some mistake. She shifted again under the false light, sweat gathering on her brow, the binders around her wrists humming and twisting as she moved.
Through her many years as a court liaison, Justine Krebbs had learned to navigate the intricate dance between the court’s cold precision and the human messiness of the cases they adjudicated. Early in her career, the idea of interfering with lives already lived had struck her as invasive, even cruel, but years of watching the High Court at work had shifted her perspective. She believed her role wasn’t to pass judgment, but to ensure that those plucked from their timelines were treated with dignity and clarity. It was exhausting work, but for Justine, there was no higher calling than helping the echoes of the past find their voice in a system that often silenced them. She could already tell, however, that this case was going to be different.
A cold and mechanical voice rang out: “The charges are as follows: Murder in cold blood, conspiracy to commit murder in cold blood, tampering with evidence, and falsification of an official government document.”
Amalie looked at Justine with scared eyes. Murder is murder, no matter what time you are from.
“How is this even… Where is my husband?” she asked.
Justine explained that in cases such as this, only the accused is removed from their timeline for initial questioning so as to help maintain the delicate balance within the timeline itself. If she went to trial, however, her husband might be permitted to join her in the courtroom if she requested it.
“Please, Lord, deliver me from this place!” Amalie cried out, unable to contain herself any longer. “Heavenly Father, please save me!”
“You will wait to address the court until it is your turn, Mrs. Jorgensen,” said the voice. It came from what looked like a large, dark mirror. With the lilt of each syllable, a thin red line darted across the glass and seemed to move with the words. She was entranced by its rhythm and could hardly remove her gaze from it.
“It’s going to be alright,” said Justine, gently patting her hand. “No one is going to harm you. Please, try to relax, I know it’s hard.”
Sitting back in her chair, Amalie began to sob while rocking back and forth, praying.
A man’s hand grabbed her arm, and she looked to her right, tears blinding her.
“Ma, begging your pardon, but if you ever want to see Hans and the children again, you need to be quiet and answer all their questions. You will have plenty of time to pray later.”
Ever since he was little, Brian Anstress had wanted to experience time travel for himself. Time Bending had always been a part of life and culture by the time he was born in 2658, and nothing excited him more. Yet the laws and sanctions in place made it all but impossible for regular folks like him to ever experience it. As soon as he finished school, he enrolled in the Intergalactic Corps with an emphasis on Law, more specifically, the laws pertaining to and governing the ever-expanding world of Time Space, i.e., Time Bending. Neither a career in science nor a lifetime in the military interested him, so he knew his best bet would be to study another field adjacent to Time Bending in order to gain access to that world. Law was a natural progression, as his mother was an attorney and his father a sheriff, and he loved the idea of serving his community and making all timelines in the universe better and safer.
After his training in the Corps and years of study, he graduated with honors and was promptly assigned to the Office of Internal Time Space Intelligence. He was part of Order 4559, Governing Timelines 5C to 11S, years 1782 to present, reporting directly to District Attorney Markus Johnson. Most of his day-to-day work consisted of assisting Johnson with cases and liaising with lifestyle research teams to ensure interrogations proceeded smoothly. There was no real detective work at this level, no real law, it all seemed like fluff and “acting” to him, but he was still learning. He had yet to be assigned a case of his own and was anxiously awaiting the opportunity, honing his skills and learning how to adopt the characteristics of each time and place the job dictated.
To provide the least jarring experience for those plucked from their timelines for court proceedings (typically the accused, but also witnesses, family support, etc.), it was discovered early on that human beings needed to feel safe and at home in their own timeline within Time Space to effectively answer questions. While most humans understood the basic concepts of time travel, few grasped its inner workings, and the further back in time one went, the harder it became to reason with people. The more primitive their minds, the more they relied on whatever God they believed in. This is why liaisons were created to assist the process. Liaisons dressed and acted like people from the timeline being worked in, helping bridge the gap between their time and the present. Their job was to help the case by supporting the accused or anyone else taken from their timeline, helping them feel comfortable enough to answer questions and providing a “safe” person to rely on. That said, anything discussed with a liaison was “on the record” and fully admissible in court.
The liaisons proved so effective that the court system soon required legal counselors and attorneys to follow their example, dressing and acting in accordance with the time and place of the case whenever interacting with individuals from the timeline. Though it seemed odd at first, the constant “dress-up” coupled with the latest technology soon became an unexpected perk of the job for many.
Any galactic citizen could request an inquisition from any timeline, provided they had good cause. Cases were prioritized by cultural impact and significance. Of course, the very first cases were high-profile and of great public interest. The entire world watched as historical secrets were revealed and records were set straight. The truth behind sensationalized stories such as the JFK assassination (it was the CIA), the identity of Jack the Ripper (Aaron Kosminski, a barber), and the final resting place of Amelia Earhart (Nikumaroro coral atoll) were all made public. With these revelations, the world breathed a collective sigh and began to heal from old wounds, the truth being the balm humanity had always needed to move forward. But that was hundreds of years ago, and these days, most cases were private matters, not worldwide news.
Once a request was filed, the elaborate machinery of the justice system roared into motion. An exhaustive investigation was conducted, poring over evidence to determine if wrongdoing had occurred and which laws had been violated. Once culpability was established, the team meticulously pinpointed the exact timeline and year(s) involved. They performed the necessary Time Bends to uncover the facts, reconstruct the events, and assign the case to the appropriate Order, tasked with bringing the alleged perpetrators to justice.
The miracle of the Universe had morphed from the scourge of existence into nothing more than an elaborate, universal court system. Whatever it was, Brian wanted to be a part of it, and so here he was.
Order 4559 received the case of The Establishment vs. Petrine Amalie Jorgensen on a Tuesday afternoon. Due to a ridiculous backlog of files, District Attorney Markus Johnson decided this would be Brian’s first case to lead, handing it off to him to get started.
The file was small, under a terabyte. Brian settled into his office chair and activated the Neural Sync Terminal embedded in his desk. The device hummed softly, initiating the data transfer that would feed all the crucial case files directly into his prefrontal cortex. He adjusted his Neural Interface headset, feeling the cool metal of the electrodes press against his temples, connecting his consciousness to a vast reservoir of data. The process, known as “Neural Upload,” was both seamless and surreal.
A flicker of light behind his eyelids signaled the upload’s beginning. He felt a brief, tingling warmth as streams of information surged through his neural pathways, bypassing traditional memory storage and implanting themselves as mental associations, visual cues, and even a few sensory simulations. Case facts, statements, journal entries, timelines, and forensic data were laid out in his mind like a three-dimensional map. He could “see” everything in his mind’s eye, each piece of evidence arranged neatly in his mental landscape, ready to be accessed with the faintest thought. The words The Establishment vs. Petrine Amalie Jorgensen shimmered and hung in the background while the data continued to materialize.
As he began his analysis, Brian triggered specific pathways in his mind, summoning witness statements and evidence slides at will. Each fact felt vivid, as though he had committed months of meticulous study to memory, yet he had downloaded it all in under ten minutes. This mental arsenal was now his to command, enhancing his clarity and strategy as he worked on the case, each fact lighting up in his mind’s eye as naturally as recalling a familiar face.
“Let’s start with the incident itself,” he thought, bringing forth the data from the Time Bend of the alleged murder. It played like a movie in his mind, edited together from many viewpoints, showing the actual moment the supposed crime occurred from all possible angles. It was less than five minutes long.
In a small, dimly lit room, the dying embers of a fireplace cast shadows upon the faces of those in attendance. A small chorus of women with hushed, frantic voices gathered around a bed where a young woman lay, writhing in agony. Sophia, her belly swollen with child and her body covered in a glistening shimmer of sweat, screamed and cried out to God in her native tongue. Between her legs, Amalie tried to coax the baby forth, but the child could not seem to find its way.
Amalie twisted a rag in the water bowl beside her, then handed it to one of the women to wipe Sophia’s forehead. Locking eyes with Sophia, she spoke sternly, “Du er nødt til at få barnet ud, ellers vil I begge dø.”
You have to get the baby out, or you will both die.
Sophia understood, her tears quieting as she steadied herself. The women in the room seemed to breathe as one, holding their collective breath as Amalie reached up between Sophia’s legs to help free the baby’s head. The blade of a small knife glinted in her hand as she helped make room for the head to pass through. Sophia cried out, pushing with everything she had, and miraculously, the baby finally emerged, the umbilical cord wrapped snugly around its neck. With a triumphant cheer, the women quickly unwrapped the cord, their hands trembling as they waited for the infant’s first cry.
When the baby let out its wail, the women rejoiced, but then, a dark, heavy gush of liquid pooled from between Sophia’s legs. This was her lifeblood, spilling out onto the crude mattress of hay, taking her essence with it.
Sophia was gone before she ever knew she had a son, and the women, Amalie included, wept openly.
Brian stopped his research, bringing his mind forward to now as this didn’t seem right to him. “I did not start practicing law to persecute midwives from the old West who lost women in childbirth,” he thought to himself.
He went back through the case file to see exactly who had requested this inquisition and why it had made it this far.
A descendant of Sophia’s in the present time had requested the inquisition, but their name was not on the record. While there was no clear evidence of wrongdoing, the circumstances surrounding the case were compelling enough that an inquisition was ordered.
The suspect, Petrine Amalie Jorgensen “Amalie,” was born in Denmark in the early 1850s and immigrated to America as a child with her family when they were seeking their “manifest destiny” and religious freedom. Her family settled in the West, and she lived a somewhat uneventful life at the time, surviving the harsh landscape and circumstances that many pioneers of that day faced.
“How awful it must have been,” Brian thought, “living in that time and place, no medicine, no technology, and being a woman to boot? No thanks.”
From the case file, Brian learned that, like most women of her time, Amalie did not attend school and married young. She met a young man named Hans, who had also immigrated to the American West from Denmark with his family, seeking religious freedom. They quickly fell in love, married, and began building a life together, raising children and working tirelessly to help grow their church.
A few years into their marriage, Hans left on a mission for the church, returning to Denmark to proselytize for their faith. Those years were hard on Amalie. She spent her days laboring on the homestead, raising children, cooking meals, cleaning, and holding everything together on her own. From journal entries and written accounts, Brian could see that she was well-liked and respected in her community, and her children loved her deeply.
The twenty-seven months of separation were burdensome, but nothing could have prepared Amalie for the shock and heartbreak that awaited her when Hans finally returned with a woman who was to become his second wife in tow. According to their faith, men were allowed, even encouraged, to take multiple wives as a sign of devotion, and large families with many wives were highly esteemed. The women, of course, had little to no say in the matter and were expected to accept the arrangement happily and obediently. Amalie, as the first wife, held the highest position in this marital hierarchy, but that did little to soften the blow of her beloved husband returning home with a younger, prettier woman who was to share his life. And bed.
“Not exactly a recipe for wedded bliss,” Brian thought to himself.
The victim, Sophia Nathalia Johansen, was born in Denmark in the 1860s and became Hans’ second wife. At the age of 22, she had previously converted to his faith and left Copenhagen to journey with him to America, knowing no one else and having little experience of the world beyond her family and religion.
No journal entries from Sophia herself were in the case file, leading Brian to assume that none existed or they were lost to history. The few entries made by others about her were quite sparse. Amalie’s only mention of Sophia expressed her heartbreak over “Hans’ second wife,” while Hans himself recorded just a single sentence: “On October 9th, 1885 I married Sophia Nathalia Johansen in the Logan Temple who died December 27th, 1886 in childbirth on the underground.”
There were only two photos of Sophia: one in black and white showed a timid-looking girl with dark hair and sad eyes, standing with her family in Denmark as they posed for a picture. The other photo was of her gravestone.
Brian knew that polygamy was already illegal in America at this time, even in the lawless West, so when Hans wrote “on the underground,” he meant in secret, away from prying eyes who might notify federal marshals that multiple wives were cohabitating in the Jorgensen home.
All who worked in Time Space knew it was unethical to meddle in history, leading to strict laws forbidding any Time Bender from altering the past. Though technology made it possible to prevent horrors like the Holocaust, every attempt to change the events of history had proven disastrous. The ripple effects erased entire timelines, altering destinies, relationships, and even the fundamental nature of existence itself.
Time was not a straight line but an intricate, interwoven force, more like an elastic band than a rigid path. Even the darkest moments of history shaped humanity’s wisdom and resilience, forging the very progress that defined civilization. Some events, however terrible, were essential to the evolution of consciousness. To change them was to unravel the lessons that made sentient beings who they were.
And so, the purpose of Time Bending was redefined, narrowing it from a tool of interference to one of observation and revelation. Time Benders were allowed to help humanity witness the past, uncover buried truths, and bring justice in ways that illuminated, rather than altered, history. This investigative function safeguarded the integrity of time while also addressing ethical wrongs that have long been obscured. After all, seeking justice and honoring truth was less about rewriting the past than it was about understanding it. Only by observing and learning could the future of humanity evolve in a way that honored every life that had come before.
These thoughts plagued Brian’s mind, and he found himself thinking, “But where does observing and the law end, and meddling begin?”
In cases like these, inquisitions were only permitted if the accused could be removed from their timeline with little to no consequence. This meant that the agents of Order 7843 had completed exhaustive research to ensure that any extraction would leave the timeline unscathed long before handing the case off to Order 4559 for inquisition. Before the accused could even be plucked from history, Order 7843 meticulously assessed their life’s impact, confirming that they have borne all the children they were destined to have, made their primary contributions, and influenced no pivotal future events. If found guilty, the accused could be removed entirely, but only if it was certain that their absence would not alter the timeline in any major way, positively or negatively. Thus, justice and integrity were maintained, allowing truth to emerge without unraveling the lives of those whose futures depended on the timeline remaining intact
“Secret marriage, secret pregnancy, secret death. It’s almost as if she didn’t even exist,” thought Brian. “Almost, but not quite, because now I know your name, Sophia Nathalia Johansen, and I am going to find out what happened to you.”
As her tears rolled out of her eyes and down her cheeks, Amalie focused her vision and was able to make out the face of the person who grabbed her arm. A man, close to her own age, dressed in strange fabrics that were styled in her time was next to her. He had kind eyes and a beard like Hans.
“My name is Mr. Anstress, Ma, Brian Anstress. I’m the lawyer who’s here to help you. I will do whatever it takes to make sure you receive a fair trial, but you need to answer all their questions now. I swear on my honor I will explain everything to you as soon as I can.”
She looked at her liaison, who nodded. Amalie was still scared but somehow his words put her nerves at ease. She was able to take a deep breath and answer all the questions the dark mirror asked her about who she was, her life, her home, her children, her husband, and even her husband’s second wife. It felt like a lifetime, but they were finally finished with the initial questions and she and her liaison were escorted to a secure room she had never been in before. It looked exactly like the main church meeting room from back home and it lifted the weight on her heart just a little.
“Your scriptures are here,” said the liaison, pointing to a bench. Amalie was elated and ran to grab them, holding the book to her chest, weeping with joy.
“Thank you!” she said, opening the book and thumbing through the pages. The words looked the same as what she remembered, but the pages felt different to her, lighter and smoother. She found her way to a specific page and read aloud, “I beseech of thee that thou wilt hear my words and learn of me; for I do know that whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions, and shall be lifted up at the last day.”
She looked at her liaison with hopeful eyes, “Do you know the words of Alma?”
“Yes, I do. I have been learning your book in preparation for this case.”
There was a noise at the door as it opened, and a guard entered, escorting Mr. Anstress inside.
“Mrs. Jorgensen,” he said, removing his hat, “Begging your pardon, but I do need to speak with you.”
“Yah,” said Amalie, folding the page in the book in the bottom right corner twice, as if to mark it for later, “Mr. Anstress, is it? You be the lawman assigned to help me with these charges. Can ya tell me, where is Hans? What does he know?”
“He is completely unaware that you have been brought here.”
“You mean he doesn’t know where I am?” She was immediately upset at this revelation and clutched the book of scriptures to her chest, “Oh dear Lord, he will be a mess of nerves and worry! Who is to tend to the children? Will he think I abandoned him, do ya know?”
“He doesn’t need to know yet, Ma. Sometimes these things go fast and the accused is found to be innocent rather quickly. If that happens then we put you right back into your timeline at the exact same moment when and where you were taken, so it is like you never left.”
“What do ya mean, sir? I’ve already been here for almost a full day by my count.” She set the book down, somewhat defeated.
“That is right, but you are not in a place where time is measured the same as in your life back home with Hans and the children. You see, here, you are outside of time, as it were.”
“Yah, but back home, where I am not, that is not outside of time, is it sir?”
“No.”
“So back there, in my time, in my home, my family is there but I am not there. I am here. So, where does my family think I am then?”
“Well, for the time being, I suppose you are correct in that your physical body is no longer present in your original timeline, and that timeline does move forward without you, temporarily.”
“Temporarily?”
“Yes, temporarily. As I said, if you are found innocent we will take you back to your original timeline at the exact same time you left, and—”
“And if I’m found to be guilty?”
“Well, we will talk about that when necessary.”
“Necessary is now, sir, begging your pardon. I am trying my best to keep up with all the fancy words and shiny things of this place, but it is far too much. Where does my husband think I am?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Mrs. Jorgensen, to be honest. I suppose that, back in your timeline at this moment, it’s feasible to think that your absence is noted and you are missed. But do not fret, all will be explained to everyone as needed, Hans included, and all will be made right in the end. You have my word.”
Amalie started to break down at the thought of her husband and children worried about her and looking for her, not knowing what happened.
“This can’t be, Mr. Anstress, it simply cannot be. You mean to tell me in this time we are in with all the fancy machines and Time Bends and whatnots you cannot find a way to at least tell my husband that I am unharmed?”
“Well, you see, it isn’t really done that way, Ma, and I am not the one who is in charge of your time loop. But again, in the case that you are found innocent—”
“I understand, sir, but between now and then he will be forced to live with the thought of my potential demise. The poor man does not deserve this burden. Please sir, I’m begging you, find a way to be sure he knows I’m safe. If you can’t tell him when I am, at least make him think I’m unharmed.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Now, Mrs. Jorgensen, Amalie, if you please, I need to know in your words, exactly what happened the night that Sophia died. I was present for all of your official answers to the court previously, and now I want you to speak with me as your attorney. Please remember that I am here to make sure you receive a fair and just verdict, and I am here to help you.
Amalie paused a moment, as if to steady herself. She took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from her brow and cheeks.
“Yah,” she said, looking up, “Tweren’t anything out of the ordinary, I’ve attended women birthing since I could barely walk meself. I’ve birthed me own four and I’ve seen this sort of thing many times.” She sat on a bench and signed. “The baby wouldn’t turn, we tried everything but he wouldn’t move. Almost a full day had passed, and still no child. We started to lose hope.”
Turning to her liaison she said, “Ma’am, I need to speak of womanly things to explain meself. Kindly advise on how I can do so with the present company,” she gestured to Brian, “and still remain respectable.”
“Well, Ma, you see in the court system nowadays it is expected, and preferred, that you speak with truth and honesty, even if speaking of womanly things with a man present. These men and women of the court will think no less of you because of what you have to speak about. Speak plain.”
This answer only partially satisfied her, but she proceeded in any event.
“In the wee hours of the morn’, the baby finally turned. We tried to get him to come forth, but no matter what we tried and how hard she pushed, he would not come. The herbs, the sav, the prayers, we tried to no effect. She was tired, oh so tired, we all were. If she didn’t get him out, both of them would die. Pushing with her very soul was the only way.”
“Was the baby’s head crowning?”
“Yah, sir, we could see the head and all his hair, bless him, every time she pushed. But as soon as she stopped, the head would go right back up, like somethin’ was pullin’ him. She tried and tried, but he wouldn’t budge. We had no choice; I’d heard it done before. T’weren’t no other options, you see. I used a small knife and opened her up, just a tiny bit where the head was pressed, so he could pass. As soon as I did, he tore through, like lightning he did! Out he came, the little bairn, with the cord wrapped round his neck like a snake! Praise God, he was healthy and breathin’ once we unwrapped him.”
Amalie looked down at her hands, which were trembling slightly as she said this, remembering the moment her husband’s son with another woman took his first breath.
“When you say you used a small knife and opened her up, can you explain what you did, exactly?”
She looked at the liaison again, as if asking for permission to proceed. The liaison nodded and Amalie looked down at her hands again.
“Well, sir, I opened her up, you see, where the head was pressed.“
“You opened her up, meaning you sliced her open?”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “It was just a little cut. At the base of her womanhood, sir”
“And when you made that cut—”
“The head came forth, tearing the skin where I made it, down and inside of her.”
“How do you know she was torn up inside?”
“Because, sir, she bled out in only a few moments. It was dark blood, so dark.”
They paused a moment, the silence growing thick between them.
“And you have made cuts like this before, with other women in labor?”
“Not I, but others I heard it done with.”
“And did they survive?”
“Maybe some, and maybe not. ‘Tis always a gamble.”
“But Sophia did not?”
“Yah, the poor girl ne’er did get to hold her son.”
“What happened to her?”
“What do ya mean, sir? Surely I’m not the first to learn ya that mothers oft die in birth. All her blood soaked clean through the mattress, it did. Was nothin’ left inside her, poor child.”
“So this has happened to you before, you have had a woman you were attending die in childbirth?”
“Yah, ‘tis something I have known before, but not the same.”
“Not the same, meaning not so much blood?”
“No, not with a babe that lived on after its mother died. If the Mother is taken, the baby oft follows to the grave.”
Brian looked into Amalie’s eyes as she said this, searching for any clue as to what she was thinking.
“And how did you feel when she died? She was your husband’s second wife, was she not?”
“Yah, she was that. And by that my sister in faith and home. I wept for Sophia, we all did.”
“Even your husband?”
“No, sir, not he.”
“Oh? Was Hans happy that she was gone?”
“Dear Lord, no,” she cried out, rising and turning away in despair, offended that he would even suggest such a thing. “My husband is a kind, Godly man! He would never rejoice in such things. He has suffered more loss and sorrow than most, he has. Than most!” Her voice was swallowed by emotion as she collapsed back down on the bench.
“What do you mean?”
“My husband, bless him, his well has dried, sir. I don’t believe he has tears left to shed for anyone, meself included. He need not be bothered by such matters.”
“Such matters, matters like the death of his wife?”
“No sir, begging your pardon, I mean matters such as mournin’ the loss of another loved one. Any loved one. He has lost beyond grief, sir.”
Brian did not know what to say to this. He had not studied Hans’ life in detail and was not familiar with his story. He met Amalie’s eyes and she looked away.
“Mrs. Jorgensen, I need you to look at me and answer this question.”
She turned back to face him.
“Did you, intentionally or accidentally, cause any harm to Sophia Nathalia Johansen on any days leading up to, or on the day of December 27th, 1886, that led to her untimely death?”
Her eyes started to well up, once again. She looked down at her hands and brought one to her mouth, unable to bring herself to meet his gaze. Finally, she breathed out a long sigh and said, “It was just a little cut. I, I was trying to save the baby.”
“And only the baby survived.”
“Yah, sir, baby Philip.”
“And with his mother dead, who was to take care of little Philip?”
Amalie looked at him quizzically, as if she could not understand the question.
“Why me, of course, and Hans, God bless his soul. He is our son as much as any others that I birthed meself, thank you kindly.”
“If I were to ask your husband to tell me the story of little Philip’s birth, do you believe he would tell me the same story you just told me?”
“Yah, sir, ‘tis the only story to tell of the matter, to be sure. But you won’t be bringing Hans here, now, will ya? You won’t be bothering him with such things now?”
“Bothering him? Madame, do you not understand the severity of the charges being brought against you?”
“Yah.”
“Well, don’t you think that any and all witnesses on your behalf should be questioned so you have a fair trial?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, there is no charge nor trial that could be brought upon me that would cause me to ask for me husband to be taken and worried and bothered with such things. He has been through enough, bless him. He need not be bothered. He need not.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m confused, Mrs. Jorgensen, just what is it that you are trying to protect him from?”
“Sorrow.”
The story of Hans Jorgensen
Hans Jorgensen was, first and foremost, a man of God. He was born in Havlokke, Denmark, in the early 1850s, the eldest son of Jorgen and Annie Pedersen. He enjoyed his early days there, surrounded by loved ones in the beautiful old country. His parents came from large families, and he spent his childhood with siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles, farming, hunting, and celebrating the seasons and harvests.
When he was still a young child, missionaries from America visited his father’s home. After many meetings, Hans’ parents decided to convert their entire family to this emerging faith, which they believed to be a “New Testament of Jesus Christ.” They were baptized in June of 1857.
They were happy, but it did not last long. Within a few years, three more sons had been born, but hatred for them, and their faith, had grown with their family. Neighbors and family members demanded they renounce this new religion, but being a man of steadfast determination, Jorgen could not deny his heart’s call to God and refused. Jorgen’s own father came with a mob of local farmers, surrounding the house and threatening the lives of all within if they did not denounce their faith. Yet, Jorgen and Annie stood firm.
Hans recalled that his grandfather and the mob returned six Sundays in a row, swearing, protesting, and threatening all manner of harm. Still, Jorgen and Annie refused to speak against their church or renounce their beliefs. On the seventh Sunday, Jorgen armed himself and, at about 1:00 pm (the usual time of the mob’s arrival) he placed his rocking chair next to the open front door and waited. He declared loudly, “The first man to enter my house today to abuse me or my wife is a dead man, even if it should be my own father.” Miraculously, the mob never appeared that day or ever again.
After that, things seemed to calm down. Jorgen and his father could be together if they avoided speaking of God or religion, a promise they both kept for the family’s sake for many years. Over time, however, Jorgen felt their family would fare better in the New World, where they could worship freely without judgment or persecution.
Jorgen wrote to the church leaders and asked for help, and one of the bishops in the church loaned him money for the voyage to America. The family at that time was Jorgen and Annie, both 40, and their children Hans, 14; Daniel, 13; Anton, 9; and baby Marius, 2. They set off on April 21st, 1866, and arrived in Copenhagen later the same day. Then they boarded a vessel named The Amerika that went to Germany first and eventually crossed the sea to reach New York City.
On board the ship the smell of steerage was a pungent mix of unwashed bodies, salt air, and the acrid stench of vomit. At his young age, Hans hadn’t fully understood the risks his parents had taken in bringing their family to America, but the endless cries of seasick children and the sight of fellow passengers weeping as they suffered silently in the night left a mark on his heart he could never forget. And the journey was only just beginning.
Each night on the ship, Mother led the family in prayer, her voice steady even when her hands trembled. Hans didn’t know then how much she must have been carrying, the fear, the uncertainty, but he clung to his faith as tightly as they all clung to God. And finally, after many difficult weeks at sea, they were overwhelmed with joy at the sight of the American shore on August 4th.
Once on land, they traveled in cattle cars bound for Wyoming, weary yet excited. Their worldly possessions were few, just some small boxes and satchels, but they were proud and determined. They had dedicated their lives to this strange land and new religion, hoping for better days. God had other plans, or so it seemed. On the morning of August 10th, the family awoke and started the day like those before, but by the afternoon, Mother had fallen ill. Cholera struck, tearing through the weary band of travelers and leaving no family untouched.
Hordes of flies buzzed around the waste buckets, landing on food and faces alike. Clean water was nowhere to be found; sickness and death surrounded them. Mother kept praying and reassuring them that they would be in Wyoming soon, but to Hans, the train felt like a prison he might never escape. With each passing moment, she became sicker, unable to hold anything down or wait for a stop to relieve herself. Doubled over and crying in pain from the cramps, she lost control of her body’s faculties. The stench grew worse with every hour as the waste buckets filled and spilled.
Jorgen did his best to tend to his wife, leaving Hans in charge of his brothers. Hans told them to cover their noses and keep praying, but the sour smell seeped into everything, a constant reminder of how far from home they truly were.
Hans had always thought of his mother as indestructible. She had survived the harsh life of a farmer’s wife, judgment and mistreatment from those back home, rationing food for her sons, storms at sea, and the stifling filth of the cattle cars. But cholera was merciless. He watched in horror as her strong hands, which had once kneaded bread, braided hair, and cradled them all in love, trembled uncontrollably. When she told him to care for his brothers, her voice was so weak he had to lean close to hear.
Annie died on August 11th, 1866, right before sunrise. She left the earth just one day after taking ill, leaving Hans with nothing but her words and the weight of responsibility he was far too young to bear. Her swift passing devastated them all, and Hans could barely comprehend his mother’s death. “How could the world just go on without Mother, as if she were never here to begin with?” he cried. “She was so kind, so loving, so full of the spirit of Jesus Christ! How in Heaven could God allow this to happen to her?”
Anger welled in Hans’ young heart as he questioned his father’s choice to leave Denmark. His father was distant, his eyes red and swollen from crying, with little to say. His younger brothers were distraught, and Hans did his best to comfort them and keep them moving forward, all while crying inside. Being just a boy himself, he wept secretly each night, longing for a mother’s embrace that would never come.
As they traveled along the Mississippi River toward Wyoming, Annie Maren Pedersen was buried somewhere along the banks, in a grave her family would never see.
Wrecked with grief, Jorgen questioned how he would go on with his four sons and no beloved Annie. On August 14th they arrived in Wyoming, where members of their church awaited with an ox team for the final leg of the journey to Utah. The camp was somber; no one was untouched by loss, and the cholera was persistent.
As the group pressed forward, burying their dead along the way, Jorgen’s three youngest sons, Hans’ best friends and brothers, also perished on the trail. Marius, the baby, died first on August 28th, breaking Jorgen’s heart even further. “How can I survive this loss without Annie to help me through, oh Lord?” he cried in grief-stricken prayer, night after night.
Cholera claimed Daniel on September 3rd and Anton on October 10th, leaving a grieving father and a lone surviving brother who could not fathom why they had been spared. Both would have gladly traded their lives to be reunited with their family in death. There were no boxes for burial, and no cemeteries, only the plains and the earth as far as the eye could see, in every direction. And somewhere out there, three small boys lay buried in nothing more than sheets, their lives ended before they’d even begun.
Jorgen and Hans now openly wept, unable and unwilling to hide their grief. The pain was all-consuming, and everyone around them shared the same burden. What began as a family of six reached Salt Lake City as two, starved and clinging to life in every way imaginable. The sting of tears that were shed between them could never be soothed. The well of grief created in their hearts could never be filled in all their days. Yet, somehow, they persevered. They lived on, for that was all they knew to do.
Thankful to God for their survival, Jorgen and Hans found their faith renewed as the city welcomed them, and among fellow church members, they found support. Day by day, their wounds grew smaller, and they let their new life fill their time, and souls, with meaning and love. Community service and church devotion became their priorities while building a homestead, farming, and working the land together forged their bond as father and son.
These experiences shaped Hans into a man who was faithful, God-fearing, stoic, and determined. He was not one to be troubled by trivial matters, though a tenderness guided most of his decisions. He did not reveal his emotions, even to his beloved Amalie. There was simply no time for such things in Hans’ existence. Not anymore.
Amalie did all she could to shield him from anything in their life and marriage that would cause him undue stress, sorrow or anger. She was successful, most of the time.
“She’s remarkably silent about Sophia, nothing specific, no personal reflections. Doesn’t that strike you as unusual?” Brian began, initiating his discussion with Ms. Krebbs, the court liaison assigned to the case. In their system, all post-interrogation debriefs were recorded for analysis.
Justine paused, organizing her thoughts before responding. “Unusual, perhaps, but not incomprehensible. Consider the situation—your husband departs for years, returns with a new wife, and expects you to accept it as divine will. Under those circumstances, I doubt many would have much to say about the second wife, especially anything kind.”
Brian regarded her comment with interest. Justine had served as a court liaison for over a decade, navigating cases across a wide range of timelines. Few unsettled her, yet this one seemed to weigh on her.
“You raise a fair point,” Brian replied after a beat. “The second wife arrives, becomes pregnant, goes into labor, and dies, all within the first fourteen months. That’s an extraordinary sequence of events. And then Hans never remarries. Amalie remains the sole wife for the rest of his life. It’s hard to ignore how…convenient that is for her.”
“Convenient?” Justine tilted her head, her tone sharpening slightly. “Amalie hasn’t articulated any grievances about Sophia. A lack of commentary doesn’t equate to hatred, let alone intent to harm or murder. Aren’t you extrapolating a bit too much?”
“I’m not drawing conclusions yet,” Brian countered. “But it’s worth examining. How common was polygamy in their community at that time? It wasn’t exactly mainstream.”
“Depends on the region,” Justine replied, leaning back slightly. “In Salt Lake City, maybe 30 to 40 percent of practicing members engaged in plural marriage, if you trust the records, which are spotty at best. In smaller settlements like Manti? Likely higher, but still not the majority, and it was certainly contentious. Federal law had already banned the practice, so any such marriages were, by necessity, clandestine.”
“Exactly, citing religious freedom to justify it,” Brian added.
“True,” Justine agreed. “But let’s not romanticize it. The records suggest many women didn’t embrace plural marriage. Even some of the wives of prominent leaders expressed private opposition. It wasn’t exactly a utopia of sisterhood.”
Brian observed her, sensing her mind working through layers of thought. “What’s on your mind?”
She hesitated before responding, her voice measured. “I’m questioning whether this case even warrants investigation. We’re dragging people out of their timelines, reopening old wounds. For what? To confirm whether one woman resented another for circumstances beyond either of their control?”
“A woman died, Justine,” Brian reminded her, his tone firm but not unkind.
“I understand that,” she said evenly. “But haven’t these people endured enough? This feels…excessive. What justice are we serving by dissecting their pain centuries after the fact?”
Brian leaned forward slightly, his intensity building. “The law doesn’t get to decide which lives are too inconvenient to investigate.”
“No, but we do decide how we apply the law,” she replied, her voice cooling. “And this case doesn’t sit right with me. The stakes feel off.”
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “Sophia might feel differently. The request for this investigation came from her line, after all.”
“I’m aware,” Justine said, meeting his gaze. “But if the child was stuck, wouldn’t she have died anyway? If the baby doesn’t come, neither mother nor child survives—that was true then, and it’s still true now. And even if we find Amalie culpable, what then? Do we extract her from her timeline permanently? How does that bring peace to Sophia’s descendant? You’ve seen the Bend. You’ve heard Hans’ story. Who lives through losses like that and remains functional, let alone capable of harming another person? This whole case feels more like historical voyeurism than justice.”
Brian’s voice sharpened slightly. “Feelings don’t constitute evidence. You know that.”
“Perhaps not,” Justine admitted. “But feelings drive actions. If you think Amalie’s action was murder, you have to acknowledge the emotions underlying it. Her heartbreak, her faith, her survival instincts, all of it matters.”
Brian nodded slightly, conceding the point. “Thus far, we only have Amalie’s perspective to analyze. We need more. We need to hear from Sophia.”
“Then request another Bend,” Justine said simply, leaning back. “Let’s see what she has to say.”
Once again, Brian settled into his office chair, the Neural Sync Terminal humming softly as it came to life. Adjusting the headset, he took a deep breath and engaged the link. The hum transformed into a pulse that resonated within his mind. The case file unfolded like an interactive diorama, vibrant and immersive. He stood, figuratively speaking, at the center of a vast, glowing library, the “shelves” brimming with holographic volumes. Each file shimmered in hues of green and gold, waiting for him to pluck it from the ethers. The words The Establishment vs. Petrine Amalie Jorgensen prominently hung high above, a constant reminder of his reason for being there.
“Start with the key players,” he thought, and the files arranged themselves into a constellation of floating profiles. Faces appeared before him: Amalie’s determined gaze, Hans’ stoic countenance, and Sophia’s hesitant smile, all rotating gently in midair, accompanied by fragments of their stories. Each was glowing with the energy of their lives. A soft voice accompanied the display, narrating as the figures came into sharper focus.
Amalie Jorgensen
A glowing dossier projected her image, wrapped in the context of her life. She was a woman of practical beauty, her face framed by dark hair pinned back in a bun, her grey eyes showing resolve.
“Born July 14, 1857, in Lolland, Denmark. Age at the incident: 29. First wife of Hans. Religious refugee in the American West,” the voiceover intoned softly.
Brian touched her profile, and scenes flickered, showing a strong woman in her community, trusted as a midwife. Her devotion to Hans was evident, though tension simmered beneath the surface.
“Outwardly accepting of polygamy, yet…reserved,” the voice added, her unspoken feelings forming shadows at the edge of the display.
Brian reached toward her hologram, and her figure dissolved into swirling mist. The silence lingered, heavy with unspoken words. Then, the next figure took shape.
Hans Jorgensen
Hans, broad-shouldered and weary, his face lined with a lifetime of work, with a long beard and bald head. A faint red aura clung to him, a visual echo of his tragedies.
“Born May 1, 1852, in Havlokke, Denmark. Age at the incident: 34. Husband to Amalie and Sophia. Religious refugee in the American West.”
His emotional detachment from Sophia’s death was evident, but it whispered more about his internal scars than any journal entry ever could.
Brian hesitated before tapping Sophia’s file, pondering the man Hans was, or seemed to be. Then he moved on to Sophia.
Sophia Nathalia Johansen
Her young face emerged, pale and framed by dark hair, her eyes a mirror of quiet determination and fear.
“Born February 4, 1864, in Copenhagen, Denmark. Age at the incident: 22. Second wife of Hans. Religious refugee in the American West,” the voiceover intoned softly.
Her story unfolded in fragments: a recent convert, a new immigrant, a young bride navigating an unfamiliar life. Few records remained, an absence that spoke as loudly as her presence once had.
Brian exhaled, letting the profiles dissolve into the air.
“Let’s see the incident again,” he thought.
The library reconfigured, morphing into a 3D reconstruction of the incident. Like in a movie, the Jorgensen home appeared, stark and rough-hewn, illuminated by flickering firelight. The tragedy played out in a series of ghostly overlays: Sophia’s labored breathing, Amalie’s urgent commands, the glint of the knife, the muted cry of a newborn piercing the tense air.
The narrator’s calm voice interjected as the words swirled in the air:
Location: Jorgensen Home, Manti, Utah.
Date and Time: December 27, 1886, 1:01 am.
Fatal Complication: A difficult delivery ending in fatal hemorrhage.
The file shimmered, and Brian watched Amalie’s hands move with precision, her voice commanding yet desperate. The moment of the “little cut” replayed in slow motion, a split-second act of courage, or folly, depending on the lens.
“Reaction from the others,” he commanded mentally, and the scene blurred, replaced by floating text that went along with the voice as it listed the names of others in attendance.
“Other Midwives: Natta Nilsson, Ella Haksandr, and Axeline Martensen were present.”
Axeline’s journal scrolled by, her words imbued with the weight of guilt and grief:
“Sophia was too young to leave this world, yet we could do nothing to keep her tethered.”
There were no other mentions of Sophia in any of their personal writings.
“Community response?” he thought.
The air rippled as new data surfaced, showing hushed whispers around the settlement. The secretive nature of the incident seemingly kept judgment at bay. The community had drawn its own veil over the event, leaving Amalie to live with her actions in silence.
Brian let the scene fade as he pondered. Amalie seemed like a genuinely decent person, and it was hard to fathom her doing such a thing on purpose. However, Sophia was very vulnerable and alone. It would have been easy to eliminate her if she was seen as a threat in some way. And Amalie did admit to cutting her, which likely led to the tear and hemorrhage that took Sophia’s life. But would she have torn and died anyway? What were Amalie’s true intentions? Could she have predicted the fatal tear? And Sophia, did she ever feel safe in that household, or was she always teetering on the edge of fear?
“Give me case elements,” he thought, a sense of determination sharpening his focus.
The holographic display shifted again, this time presenting a kaleidoscope of interlocking images and phrases. It showed the knife’s blade gleaming in the firelight and Sophia’s lifeblood pooling on the straw mattress, so dark it was almost black.
The narrator’s voice continued to make the picture in his mind complete, like a moving mural: “Forensic analysis concludes the victim suffered a fourth-degree vaginal tear that possibly extended through the vaginal tissue, perineal muscles, anal sphincter, and rectal mucosa. The tear was likely caused by the calculated cut made by the attending midwife. Maternal mortality rates of the era reflect widespread risks, with approximately 10 to 15 women dying per 1,000 live births. Main risks at the time included hemorrhage and infection. The midwife’s actions suggest desperation, though intent remains unclear.”
Brian absorbed the data as his mind wrestled with the possibilities: Was Amalie’s action a calculated harm or a last-ditch attempt to save life?
“Facts about cultural norms in this time and place,” he thought, and a timeline of polygamy’s societal impact began moving through his mind.
A new scene shimmered and unfolded, showing the heart of their community. Here, polygamy was not merely a practice but a divine mandate for some church members. Women, their faces etched with both resolve and sorrow, stood as living testaments to a faith that demanded much. For some, plural marriage was a spiritual trial, strengthening their resolve and proving their devotion to God. For others, Amalie among them, it was a bitter pill, leaving them with feelings of jealousy, loneliness, and longing that they dared only to confess in private journals. A single sentence emerged from the glowing dossier: “Sixty three percent of women actively engaged in polygamy at the time admitted to feelings of loneliness, jealousy, or unhappiness regarding the practice.”
Amalie’s voice emerged faintly, an echo of a claim that she felt “sisterly affection” for Sophia. Yet the playback didn’t miss the flickers of tension in her interactions. Amalie’s role as the first wife gave her certain privileges but also burdens. Her place in the marital hierarchy might have been threatened by Sophia’s youth and pregnancy, an intrusion that could not easily be overlooked. Brian saw flashes of Amalie’s heartbreak captured in her own words, entries hinting at betrayal and resentment that seemed to simmer beneath a carefully composed exterior.
Sophia herself was a ghost, her voice absent from the records, her inner thoughts a void. There were no journals, no letters, no testimony to explain her side of the story. All Brian could see were her eyes, dark, wide, and weary, as the holographic image of her stood isolated in a world that had taken everything familiar and replaced it with duty.
The final sequence was a storm of emotions, bold and bright in their presentation, as they flitted through his mind like moving pages in a book. He saw Amalie, distressed and defensive, pleading to protect Hans from more sorrow. Her words echoed in his mind: “He is our son.” The child, a fragile link between two women’s lives, both connected and divided them in ways Brian couldn’t fully comprehend. Amalie’s trauma was palpable, her guilt layered with a fierce protectiveness that blurred the lines between love, duty, and regret.
As the playback faded, Brian’s mind was alive with questions. The lack of historical precedent for a case like this stood out: a first wife accused of killing a second wife during childbirth in a polygamous marriage was unheard of. It was an anomaly, a tragic aberration in a time already fraught with hardship. But was it evidence of Amalie’s innocence, her actions driven by medical desperation, or an indication of something darker?
Brian had the facts, the fragments of lives long past. Yet, like history itself, the truth remained elusive, a puzzle of human motives shaped by faith, fear, and the crushing weight of survival.
“Conclusion, please,” he thought. The Neural Link pulsed softly as the system synthesized a final thought: “Conclusion incomplete. Counsel needs additional evidence: Time Bends focusing on Sophia’s life and the days leading up to the incident. Expedited service level requested.”
As this conclusion came into his mind, it was immediately sent via Neural Download to his superior on the case, District Attorney Johnson, for the next steps. The scene in his mind faded, and the Neural Link disconnected, leaving Brian sitting in silence.
Brian nodded to himself, pulling his mind back into the present. “We’re not done yet, Sophia,” he whispered, his voice resolute.
Amalie wanted desperately to go home. Of course, her “home” was not only far away but also a long time ago, several hundred years ago, in fact. While she understood the basic ideas around Time Bending and Time Space in general, whenever she tried to make sense of why she was here, and where (or when) “here” was, her head began to ache.
The quarters where she was detained were startlingly familiar, yet not quite right. The walls were constructed of what appeared to be rough-hewn logs, their texture mimicking the first cabin she and Hans had ever built together, when they were first married. A small, unlit hearth sat in the corner, its darkened stone identical to the one she’d spent countless hours tending back home. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the air, though there was no fire to be seen, and the warmth she expected was absent, leaving the room cool and sterile.
Simple furnishings completed the illusion: a sturdy wooden bed with a hay-stuffed mattress and a quilted coverlet much like the one her mother had given her on her wedding day; a table and two chairs of mismatched wood; and a solitary shelf holding a book of scriptures, a tin cup, and a battered oil lamp. She ran her fingers over the table’s surface, marveling at the grain, but her hand recoiled slightly at its unnatural smoothness. The texture was too perfect, too precise, as though it had been molded rather than carved out of real wood.
Even the small window in the corner, covered with oiled paper, reminded her of home. But the view beyond was a blank, foggy, indistinct gray that revealed nothing of the outside world. She found herself staring at it, hoping to glimpse the familiar peaks of the Utah mountains, but they never appeared.
The room’s stillness felt oppressive. There were no sounds of chickens clucking or the wind rattling through the gaps in the logs, no distant voices of her children playing. The youngest—nearly two now—should have been toddling around by her skirts, chattering in that half-formed language only mothers understood. But the air here carried a faint antiseptic tang beneath the smoky smell, a subtle but jarring reminder that this was not home. This place was something else entirely, a shadow of her life, carefully constructed yet hollow, a reminder of all she’d lost and everything she stood to lose.
She sat down on the bed, its creak unnervingly similar to her own, and smoothed the quilt beneath her hands. For a moment, she allowed herself to pretend, to believe, she was back home, waiting for Hans to come in from the fields. But the silence was too heavy, and the absence of her children too loud. This place might look like home, but it lacked the warmth of life, the messiness of love. It felt like a mirror, showing her what had been while denying her what was.
She began to feel despair taking over again and turned back to her scriptures, desperately looking for some sign, some indication from Heavenly Father that things would be alright. Once again, it was the words of Alma that comforted her most, and she read the passage aloud to herself: “Yea, I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak; therefore I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in His strength I can do all things.”
She breathed out a deep sigh and said softly, “In His strength, I can do all things. Amen.”
She wanted to journal, as she always had, but there were no journals or writing tools in her room. She pondered for a moment on her liaison, Ms. Krebbs, and the lawman, Mr. Anstress. Both of them seemed like nice enough people, maybe not necessarily godly, but kind and honest, in any event. She felt compelled to answer all their questions honestly, but also feared that saying too much might lead to her undoing.
Thinking back on the matters that had transpired, she could not help but wonder if there had been some way things could have gone differently.
She looked down at her hands and remembered holding the knife, remembered the act of opening Sophia up, just a little. But for some reason, she couldn’t recall coming to that decision. She could only remember the moment, then after. And the blood, all of Sophia’s blood.
Sophia.
Poor Sophia.
Admittedly, she had not been pleased when Hans brought Sophia into their family without so much as a word, without one conversation with her. It was simply expected that she be happy and obedient. And thankful. She had been so happy to have him home after their many months apart. She truly loved him and believed he loved her just the same. But when he showed up with another woman to be his second bride, she knew his love for her was not the same, not the same at all. And this knowing was heartbreaking.
The other women in the church spoke of plural marriage as a divine covenant, a test of faith and humility. To voice dissent was to question God’s will and risk being seen as rebellious or ungrateful. Amalie learned quickly to keep her frustrations to herself, offering polite smiles to neighbors who marveled at her ‘grace’ in accepting Sophia into their home. But inside, she felt like a cracked jar, struggling to hold together under the weight of her broken heart. Even still, she loved Hans. She followed his leadership in their home and obeyed him, though it hurt her deeply.
Sophia hardly spoke English, which was fine since most everyone spoke Danish anyway. But she was shy and timid and seemed out of place. Amalie pitied her more than she resented her, and she tried to help ease Sophia’s burden and make her feel welcome in her new home. While Hans spent his days tending to the fields, it was Amalie who taught Sophia how to milk the cows, churn the butter, and bake the bread. And when Sophia grew ill from the pregnancy, it was Amalie who took on the extra burden, waking before dawn to stoke the fire and staying up late to mend clothes by the dim light of a lantern. She was bone-tired, her hands calloused and aching, yet she dared not complain. A good wife endured, and Amalie intended to be a good wife.
She prayed every night for her heart to soften, for God to help her love Sophia as a sister-wife should. But the resentment lingered, creeping into her thoughts at the quietest moments, when she saw Hans touch Sophia’s arm at dinner, or when she overheard their hushed conversations late at night. She hated herself for it, but she hated the arrangement even more. How could marriage, a covenant blessed by God, feel so fractured and cruel?
At times, Amalie felt empathy for Sophia’s timid nature, her awkward attempts at conversations, her quiet tears when she thought no one was watching. But other times, she resented her deeply. When it was revealed that Sophia was pregnant, Amalie had to excuse herself to the barn to scream and cry into her apron alone.
“But I didn’t want her to die!” she said aloud, partially to hear herself say it and partially to convince herself it was true.
But it was true, wasn’t it?
Of course, it was.
Brian counted at his desk. “One, two, three, four—”
Suddenly the terminal emitted its low, rhythmic hum once again. The incoming message materialized in his mind’s eye: “The Establishment vs Petrine Amalie Jorgensen – Additional Evidence.”
“Four seconds this time? They are slacking off over there,” he thought to himself with a small laugh.
Only four seconds had passed since he submitted his conclusion and request to his boss, DA Johnson. As protocol dictated, Johnson reviewed the key points of the case file, weighing the evidence before deciding to approve or deny the request. If approved, the request was relayed to the appropriate Order, specialists in gathering the required temporal evidence.
This time, the request went to Order 8954. They would analyze the case file, execute the necessary Time Bends, and deliver the results back to the requesting investigator, Brian Anstress, precisely as if no time had elapsed. The synchrony was uncanny, often within one second of the original request, and today, a mere four. Time Space investigations had their quirks, and this seamless efficiency was one of them.
As the data transfer began, a flicker of light behind his closed eyelids signaled the start of the download, pulsing softly in sync with his neural activity. A comforting warmth surged through his brain, accompanied by a subtle tingle as streams of new data coursed through his neural pathways, rewriting his awareness with pristine precision. Moments later, a new index materialized in his mind: Sophia Nathalia Johansen – Early Life, Courtship, End of Life.
“Play in order,” he thought, and the Time Bend began.
It unfolded like an immersive film, more vivid than memory, yet just beyond the reach of reality. The scene played in his mind as if he were there in person, an invisible observer. He could see and hear everything: the nuances of voices, the rustle of fabric, the interplay of light and shadow. He even felt the atmosphere of the room, the warmth of the sun through a window or the chill of a draft. Yet he could not touch, interact, or be seen. The sensation was akin to peering into a mirrored world, a perfect reflection of the past.
Only one sense remained elusive. Smell. No scent of baking bread or rain-soaked earth. It was a gap that technology still hadn’t bridged, an absence that reminded him this was not truly the past, but a carefully reconstructed illusion. And yet, the experience was so visceral, so real, it never failed to leave him momentarily breathless.
He saw Sophia as a young child, her small hand nestled in her father’s as they navigated the cobblestone streets of Copenhagen. Gas lamps cast a soft, golden glow, their light flickering in rhythm with the gentle evening breeze. The city bustled around them, alive with the sounds of horse-drawn carriages, distant laughter, and the occasional call of a street vendor hawking roasted chestnuts. Sophia’s family, a well-dressed group of seven, moved with purpose and excitement, their fine coats and polished shoes marking them as people of means.
The Royal Danish Theatre loomed ahead, its grand façade glowing in the light of the evening. Sophia’s eyes sparkled as they approached the ornate entrance, the grandeur of it all wrapping her in a sense of awe. Inside, the air was thick with anticipation, the murmurs of well-dressed patrons echoing in the grand hall. That night, they were there to see Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. As the curtain rose, Sophia was utterly captivated. Her young mind drank in every detail, the vibrant costumes, the poetic dialogue, the delicate interplay of light and shadow on the stage.
This experience planted something deep within her: a yearning to create, to learn, to understand the world through stories, music, and art. Even through the constraints of the Bend, Brian could feel the flicker of inspiration that took hold of her, a seed of ambition that would shape her life.
The Time Bend shifted, pulling him forward through Sophia’s life. He saw her seated at a desk in a sunlit classroom, carefully practicing German script beneath the watchful eye of her teacher. Beyond her native Danish, Sophia had learned to speak German fluently, a skill that would later open doors to literature, philosophy, and culture.
At home, her talents continued to bloom. Brian saw her sitting at an easel, a palette in one hand and a brush in the other, her gaze focused intently on the canvas. The portrait she worked on, a soft, striking likeness of her younger sister, was beautiful in its subtle details, as though her subject had been captured in mid-breath. Painting, it seemed, was her secret passion, her dream of becoming an artist quietly nurtured in stolen moments. She pored over books containing information about artists from the so-called Danish Golden Age of Painting. She told her parents many times, “Åh, hvis jeg bare kunne male som Christen Købke, så ville mit liv være fuldendt!”
Oh, if only I could paint like Christen Købke, then my life would be complete!
Her life took a different turn, however, when missionaries from Hans’s faith began to visit their home. Brian watched as Sophia’s parents, after many conversations and much deliberation, embraced the new religion, first converting themselves and their younger children. The older siblings, including Sophia, were slower to follow but eventually took the same step. For Sophia, the decision was made with an open heart and unwavering conviction. She fully embraced her new faith, finding solace and purpose in its teachings.
The Bend paused here, giving Brian a moment to absorb the kaleidoscope of her life, each scene brimming with richness and promise, each choice shaping her path. Her past painted a vivid picture, one filled with beauty, aspiration, and belief, yet shadowed by the sacrifices her choices would demand.
“This is not some shy, meek woman,” Brian thought, his brow furrowing as he observed Sophia’s early life. “She was smart, outgoing, an artist even! What happened?”
He returned his focus to the Time Bend, the flickering images drawing him deeper into her past. He watched as Sophia first met Hans, as a missionary visiting their home. Hans had reddish-brown hair thinning at the crown, a neatly trimmed mustache and a long beard styled in the fashion of the time. He carried himself with a confidence that contrasted with Sophia’s youthful curiosity. She was clearly captivated, though their early interactions were strictly centered on his missionary work. They read scriptures together, and Hans spoke passionately about the new church blossoming in America. His tales and promises of the afterlife brimmed with wonder and a compelling narrative. But it wasn’t just scripture that enchanted Sophia’s family, it was Hans’ stories of untamed America and the opportunities waiting for those bold enough to grasp them.
These stories caught the particular attention of Johan, Sophia’s father. Brian watched as Johan and Hans retired to the parlor after dinner, leaving the rest of the family behind. The room was warm with the glow of candlelight, a faint haze of cigar smoke hanging in the air, though Johan’s newfound faith would soon prohibit such indulgences. Johan poured himself a modest glass of brandy, hesitating before speaking in a hushed tone.
“Jeg har tænkt meget over dette, og jeg håber, du vil forstå,” Johan began, his voice carrying the weight of his decision. As Johan continued to speak Brian understood the Danish words instinctively, the Neural Sync translating as seamlessly as if they were his own thoughts in English:
“I have thought a great deal about this, and I hope you will understand. Our family business is struggling, and times are hard. It is a heavy burden that we all feel. I want my daughter, Sophia, to have a future with opportunities that I can no longer provide for her here. If you would take her with you to America and marry her, it would be a great relief for our family.”
Brian felt the tension in the air as the plea lingered. Hans leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard as he considered the proposal. There was reluctance in his eyes, but also calculation. After a pause, he nodded solemnly. “I will do what I can,” Hans replied in Danish, his voice steady but devoid of warmth.
Preparations were made over the following months for Sophia and Hans to journey to America. Hans could not take her as a wife until his mission was complete, as he had church duties to attend to. The Time Bend shifted, showing Sophia sitting stiffly beside Hans in her family’s parlor. Her parents looked on with hopeful smiles, but the atmosphere between Sophia and Hans was strained, their conversation polite yet stilted.
Sophia’s eyes searched Hans’ face, yearning for some sign of affection or excitement. Instead, she was met with a reserved smile. Hans reached out and lightly touched her hand. “I believe you will make a fine wife,” he said, his tone kind but detached.
“And I will do my best to honor you, our faith and family,” Sophia replied, her voice steady though her eyes betrayed her unease.
Brian’s stomach churned as he observed the scene. The young woman was fulfilling a role dictated by duty, not choice. “There was no courtship,” Brian thought bitterly, “only a business arrangement to ease her father’s burdens.”
Brian returned to the Bend to watch as they journeyed forth. Their passage to America was much more opulent than Hans had experienced as a child immigrating with his family, all those years ago. He watched as Sophia chose not to bring her easel and paints with her on the journey; her beloved books, art and supplies were left behind as ancient relics of a life that once was, a life that was never meant to be.
The Bend shifted to the moment Sophia arrived at the Jorgensen home, her heart pounding as she nervously awaited her meeting with the family matriarch, Amalie. Hans had spoken of her only briefly, his words laced with a quiet reluctance that left Sophia uncertain of what to expect. She was taken aback by the look of bewilderment that crossed Amalie’s face when their eyes first met. Hans quickly ushered Amalie away, the long-awaited reunion abruptly halted by the news of a “second wife,” a revelation that seemed to catch Amalie off guard. Her forced smile did little to mask the dismay and shock that flickered across her face. Left standing on the stoop, Sophia felt the weight of the moment settle in as the children peered at her from the shadows of the porch. With a steadying breath, she smoothed her bodice and squared her shoulders, trying to find some semblance of composure. It was clear now that this was not the warm welcome she had envisioned for her arrival in Utah. Not by a long shot.
The Bend shifted forward to the final moment it would show from Sophia’s life, just one day before her tragic death. She sat by the fire, very pregnant on a bitterly cold winter’s night. The children were tucked in their beds, their eyes fixed on the flames from the warmth of their blankets. Hans was noticeably absent, likely attending to a church duty of some kind. Sophia appeared radiant, her pregnancy full and beautiful, yet an overwhelming sense of uncertainty clouded her expression. Amalie stood behind her, her hands gently weaving through Sophia’s hair, braiding it for the night. Both women stared into the fire, but while Sophia seemed lost in thought, Amalie’s face was streaked with silent tears, heartbreak evident in her every feature. The home around them was impeccably clean and well-organized, a testament to the women’s care. The shelves were stocked with food, pies, breads, and even sweets, bustling with the bounty of the season. It appeared to be a particularly prosperous year, thanks in large part to the influx of goods and money from Johan back in Denmark. Yet, despite the outward abundance, the contrast between the two women was striking.
As he watched this moment like someone gazing at a portrait in a gallery, Brian had many thoughts come to light. To him it seemed that both women fulfilled their duties as wives, both obeying a man who, perhaps, cared for them but struggled to show it, or maybe, didn’t know how. “Or maybe,” Brian thought, “he didn’t care for them at all, or at least not as much as he cared for himself.”
The Bend came to an end and Brian brought his mind forward to now. A sadness lingering inside of him that he could not shake. Usually he did not get emotionally wrapped up in the cases he worked on. But this was also the first case he had ever led before, and it was special. And particularly sad.
“Catalog and organize key points with details into the official case file,” he thought.
He removed his Neural Link Headset and rubbed his temples. He didn’t want to think anymore on this tonight. He needed some time to process it before making closing arguments tomorrow.
The Court of High Authority of All Time Space was far more than an international tribunal; it encompassed seven galactic empires spanning as many solar systems. As the Universe continued its relentless expansion, the discovery of time travel had not only unlocked the rivers of time but also flung open the gates to oceans of unexplored galaxies.
The past few centuries had been a whirlwind of first contact, treaty negotiations, avoided wars, and the exchange of knowledge from civilizations previously thought unimaginable. Every sentient being, no matter their origin, was bound by the web of Time Space, a delicate balance where the actions of one could ripple through the cosmos, creating a domino effect that compelled cooperation.
To maintain fairness in this vast interconnected system, the Court’s laws were constructed by replicating the best principles from the diverse legal traditions of its member systems. Outdated or irrelevant practices were cast aside, while cutting-edge artificial intelligence brought unparalleled logic and efficiency. Synthetic humans, immune to corruption and bias, presided over the Orders at the highest levels. The result was a judicial system so fair and balanced that it seemed almost utopian, a mechanism designed to weigh every aspect of every case, blind to prejudice and focused solely on justice for all sentient beings.
Each case was assigned to a single human attorney from the appropriate Order, chosen to lead the investigation and arguments. Their role was to gather and analyze data, compile the case file, and evaluate both the prosecution’s and defense’s positions before presenting their recommendations to the High Court. The digital judge would then deliberate on every piece of evidence, weighing each side equally. The goal was not merely a verdict, but one that honored truth, justice, and the complexities of existence, while acknowledging the struggles of sentient life across all times and places.
For Mr. Brian Anstress, however, this particular case defied every expectation. As he prepared his closing arguments for The Establishment vs. Petrine Amalie Jorgensen, his thoughts churned with unease. Law, by design, was meant to be clear-cut, with time travel offering the ultimate clarity. Time Bends should reveal the exact moments when crimes occurred, allowing events to be seen and understood as they truly happened.
But this case was the antithesis of certainty. Every Time Bend viewed had deepened the mystery rather than clarified it. Evidence that should have illuminated the truth instead cast long shadows, and every piece of new data seemed to add another layer of ambiguity. The deeper Brian delved into the case, the further he found himself lost in its labyrinth of questions.
And yet, he had to press on. Justice demanded clarity, or at least, the closest approximation he could provide in a case where certainty felt impossibly out of reach.
After another sleepless night, Brian rose from his bed, the weight of the case pressing heavily on his mind. He moved through the familiar routine, preparing himself for the day ahead. As was required by this case, he dressed in the time and style of a man of means in the American West of the 1880s. He pressed the button on the control panel in his closet, watching as his clothing materialized, perfectly fitted to his frame. His reflection in the mirror confirmed the transformation: a tailored suit, polished boots, and a long, full beard that regrew instantaneously before his eyes. No matter how many times he experienced it, the sight was always slightly unnerving, like stepping into the skin of another man.
The court building itself was a marvel of time and culture. Attorneys and liaisons moved through its corridors in an eclectic parade of historical fashions, each dressed to match the era of the case they represented. A woman in the regal attire of an ancient dynasty passed by a man clad in the sleek, angular garb of a far-future civilization. This immersive approach served a purpose beyond aesthetics: it was a strategy to ensure the comfort of individuals plucked from their timelines. Yet, the visual spectacle never failed to entertain those who observed it, a kaleidoscope of eras colliding under the same roof.
Before heading into court, Brian met with his case liaison, Justine Krebbs. She, too, was outfitted in nineteenth-century attire, her bonnet perched neatly over her tightly pinned hair. Together, they reviewed the new Time Bends, going over the key points of the case one last time.
“I barely slept,” Justine admitted, her face drawn with fatigue. “It’s not just the evidence, it’s the lives they lived, Brian. Such harsh, unforgiving times.”
Brian nodded grimly. He felt it too, the gnawing question of authority. What right did they, as distant descendants with all the privileges of a modern galaxy-spanning society, have to question the actions of those who had struggled to survive in a brutal past? Was it justice, or arrogance?
These doubts lingered as they stepped into the courtroom. The room was stark, its design sterile and utilitarian. A few rows of benches lined the back, while a single piercing light shone from above, illuminating the defendant seated at the front. Amalie Jorgensen sat quietly, her hands restrained in glowing energy binders. Brian’s stomach twisted at the sight.
“If it pleases the court,” Brian said, his voice steady as he addressed the dark, reflective mirror at the head of the room, “counsel requests that the binders be removed from the defendant. We argue that she poses no flight risk and is of no threat to herself or others.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a soft pop, the binders vanished from Amalie’s wrists.
The overhead voice reverberated through the chamber: “Please come to order. The Establishment vs. Petrine Amalie Jorgensen is now in session. The honorable AIDEN 76000 presiding.”
Brian stepped forward. “Your Honor,” he began, addressing the dark mirror that represented the synthetic intelligence of the court, “after thorough review of the case file, multiple Time Bends, witness accounts, forensic evidence, and historical context, we recommend proceeding with caution in levying charges against Petrine Amalie Jorgensen.
“The unique circumstances of this case, particularly the lack of documented precedent, the limited medical understanding of the time, and the psychological state of the accused, suggest that traditional notions of criminal intent are difficult to apply. We propose a verdict of justifiable intervention with unintentional fatality and recommend dismissing further criminal proceedings. This verdict would acknowledge the tragedy of the victim’s death while recognizing the overwhelming limitations faced by the defendant as a midwife in her era.”
He paused, glancing at Amalie, her eyes wide and fixed on him. Then he continued. “We also suggest that the case records include detailed annotations of the unique social, psychological, and historical factors involved, ensuring that future assessments of similar cases remain just and contextually informed.”
There was a brief pause as his words seemed to hang in the air while the synthetic judge processed the details of the file and these arguments. Then, the dark mirror flickered, a red line tracing across its surface as the court responded. “Counsel’s argument is compelling and well-rooted in historical context. However, given the defendant’s experience as a midwife and her position as the primary caregiver of the victim, her actions may constitute an overreach, resulting in a preventable death. Further argument is required to address this counterpoint.”
Brian had expected this. He stepped forward again, his voice calm but resolute. “Your Honor, counsel maintains that Amalie Jorgensen acted out of desperation, not malice. Her intent was to save both mother and child under dire circumstances.
“That said, we acknowledge the tragedy of Sophia’s death. In light of this, we ask the court to classify Amalie’s actions as negligent intervention with fatal consequences, preserving the case as a historical tragedy rather than criminal intent. Additionally, we urge the court to recognize the profound vulnerabilities of Sophia as a young, isolated second wife in a polygamous marriage. Her voice is absent from the historical record, and her early death should stand as a testament to the hardships endured by all women of that era.”
Amalie’s tears glistened as Justine whispered explanations to her in plain language. The courtroom fell into a tense silence as the court deliberated. Finally, the mirror spoke:
“The court finds Petrine Amalie Jorgensen guilty of involuntary manslaughter, acknowledging that her intervention during childbirth was well-intentioned but reckless, resulting in a preventable death. No punitive action will be imposed.
“Her actions are to be recorded as part of a historical tragedy, with annotations preserving the broader context of her role and circumstances. Both the victim, Sophia, and the accused, Amalie, will have their names and stories archived to reflect the complex social, psychological, and cultural realities of their time and their contributions to human history.”
The voice softened. “Mrs. Petrine Amalie Jorgensen, you are free to return to your time and place without further disruption. The court is now adjourned. Long live liberty.”
Amalie paced the small room, her hands wringing together as if trying to squeeze meaning from the events that had unfolded. Alone once again, she replayed the words of the verdict in her mind, their weight mingling with a strange sense of relief. Before she could fully process it, she had been escorted from the courtroom to her quarters, unable to thank Mr. Anstress or Ms. Krebbs for their tireless efforts on her behalf.
A soft knock broke through her swirling thoughts. The door creaked open, and Justine stepped inside. Before a word could be spoken, Amalie crossed the room in two hurried steps and wrapped her arms around her.
“You’re going home now,” Justine said, her voice warm and filled with genuine relief. “You’ll be returned to the exact moment you left, as if none of this ever happened.”
Amalie pulled back, her brows knit in confusion. “But it said I was guilty?”
“Of manslaughter,” Justine explained gently. “It means what happened was an accident, a terrible, tragic accident. And now, it’s time to send you home.”
Another knock interrupted them, and the door opened again to reveal Brian. His face, so often somber, now held a rare softness, almost a smile.
“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” he said, stepping inside. “And to wish you well on your journey home, Ma.”
Amalie turned to him, her gratitude evident in her expression. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. Brian extended a hand, and she took it, their grip firm, one of shared respect and unspoken understanding.
“Great job, Krebbs!” He said, turning to address Justine, “This one is for the record books! I’ve never seen a case take longer than a day!”
“How will it be, then, going back home?” Amalie interrupted, her voice trembling. “Will I remember this place?”
Brian exchanged a glance with Justine before answering. “It’s different for everyone. Most describe it like a dream, fragments of images and moments that feel just out of reach, like something imagined.”
Amalie nodded slowly, her thoughts drifting to Hans. “What am I to tell Hans?”
“That,” Brian said carefully, “is entirely up to you. This is your story.”
Justine stepped in gently. “Take caution, though. Share it wisely, and only with those who may understand. Not everyone will believe what you’ve seen or experienced here.”
Amalie let out a small, almost disbelieving laugh, the first genuine one since her arrival. “Oh, I should think not! They’d think me completely mad to spin such a yarn!”
The three of them stood in a quiet moment of shared understanding. For all that had been lost and learned, a sense of closure hung in the air, fragile but real.
Brian sat at his desk, the holographic court records hovering before him in his mind. The room was silent save for the occasional hum of the data interface as he reviewed the final annotations and filed all the case elements away for archival. His first case as a lead was closed, the verdict rendered. Amalie had been sent back to her time, and justice for Sophia, or something resembling it, had been served.
He reached for his cup of coffee—now nearly cold—and glanced at Amalie’s scanned midwifery notes, retrieved from the Time Bends. The pages materialized before him like carbon copies, the handwriting neat and deliberate, outlining the births she had personally attended over the years. Each entry was painstakingly detailed.
He had reviewed them before, but as the pages drifted by in chronological order, one in particular drew his attention. The bottom right corner had been folded twice, as if marked for later—just as he had seen Amalie do with a page in her scriptures.
It was from the years of births prior to Sophia’s, something he hadn’t truly noticed until this moment.
He touched the page, and the words projected clearly before him:
“Moderen mistede for meget blod. Ingen yderligere indgriben mulig. Sikrede snittet kun barnets overlevelse.”
Mother lost too much blood. No further intervention possible. Cut ensured survival of the child only.
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Brian froze, his stomach knotting as his focus settled on the word only. The phrasing was not ambiguous. It was methodical. Intentional.
“She knew.”
— & —
Melissa May Curtis combines a strong background in business, finance, and social media marketing with an enduring passion for storytelling. Based in Burbank, California, she has brought her creative visions to life as a producer and co-star of the Netflix reality series Pet Stars. Now focusing on writing, she is channeling her enthusiasm into a range of creative projects, including books, short stories, and stage plays. Committed to amplifying voices and exploring narratives that inspire and challenge, she continues to push creative boundaries. Beyond writing, she enjoys traveling with her husband and children, cooking, theater, and advocating for animal welfare. Her dynamic blend of professional expertise and creative passion drives her continued exploration of the arts. She can be found on Instagram at @MelissaMayC.
