Tomorrow's Ghost

1989. The biting wind froze even the longing in his chest. Standing on a rugged cliff, he peered through his binoculars. The world was reduced to two stark colors: the endless, unforgiving white of the frozen sea, and the blinding red of her winter coat. The icy water between them was barely three miles wide, yet it was an insurmountable abyss. There she was—his lover, trapped on the other side of the Iron Curtain. She raised a hand and waved, a silent farewell to a bygone era. A second later, a crimson flower bloomed abruptly on her chest. She crumpled to the ground, her body quickly swallowed by the raging blizzard. He sprinted to the outpost's radio room, screaming hoarsely for help. Much later, he received her official death certificate, stamped with a heavy government seal. But staring at the ink, he realized a chilling impossibility: He had watched her die at exactly 3:00 PM. The official time of death was also recorded as 3:00 PM. But they were not on the same day. Some borders, once drawn, cannot be crossed—not even by time.