The crack was small at first, nothing more than a pronounced vein in the horizon’s pale blue skin. If it had been any smaller, she would have dismissed it as a balloon or the grey trail of a plane. But it was too dark, and upon second glance, she could have sworn she saw it slowly moving, spreading. The world kept buzzing beneath her, undisturbed, the busy people under her with warm coffees balanced on their one free arm, the taxi engines chortling as they passed. No one stopped to notice that crack in the sky, and when her mother came outside to fetch Clara for breakfast, she didn’t notice it either.
“Come on, darling,” her mother said, taking her by the arm into the kitchen. “Your breakfast’s getting cold.”