Her current commission was for a man grieving the loss of his wife. He wanted a place where he could experience their wedding day one last time, perfectly, without the pain of the subsequent loss clouding the memory.
Anya met him in an empty field at the edge of the city. She didn't bring blueprints; she brought jars of collected light—afternoon sun from twenty years ago—and spools of nearly transparent wire. She began to weave the air itself.
She constructed a small chapel that shimmered in the heat haze. The floor felt like the exact grass they stood on. The air held the specific scent of the roses in his wife's bouquet. The light entering the windows was filtered precisely as it had been at 4:00 PM on that specific day.
The man walked through the entrance, tears streaming down his face as the sound of their original wedding song started to play, impossibly, from the walls. He stayed inside for hours. Anya waited patiently outside, knowing her work was delicate.
When he emerged at sunset, he looked exhausted but lighter. He didn't speak. He simply handed her a small, sealed envelope containing her payment and walked away.
Anya watched him go, then took out a small, metallic sphere. She touched a button. Her ephemeral structure began to shimmer, fold, and dissolve into the twilight air, disappearing completely, leaving only an empty field behind. Her job was to build places for goodbyes, and her greatest skill was knowing how to perfectly erase them afterward.
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