He is twenty-two years old and has traveled through time seventeen times. The price of each time is counted in his watch. She has no name and no origin. The wrist guard on her left wrist has a very thin metal wire growing out of the flesh.
He thought he was looking for answers left by his parents. She knew the answer had been with her all along.
This is a novel about "mending" - what is mended is not a wound, but the narrow gap left after the world cracks open; what is mended is not brokenness, but the loss of control in the last eight years before the disaster. The stitcher does not show up, he only leaves traces: a white cat, a wall of silvery white light, and a note written six years ago.
Between the edges and corners, who should you trust?
