Light filtered through narrow gaps in buildings like tired gold. The walking path past the curve leading to the Malostranská square was bustling with people — some going back home from work, some being tourists, or students just having free time.

  Tram 15 came to a halt at the stop, half of the passengers stepping out and crossing the road to get to the houses, other half got in from the stop where they’d spent their time waiting. The tram was a standard one — three cars (a change implicated somewhere around 2027 to make more place for people, and less trams moving across the city. It didn’t work out, but the new length stayed), moderately filled up with people.

  In the driver’s cabin, two operators sat: Marek, the primary one, and Al?beta, in case things went south. It was the only way it was allowed now. Marek had been driving the route for the last nine years, remembered things about everything — how it felt when the brakes were heavy from rain; what stray dog lived on which street. He knew the curve of the Malostranská line like a signature, so, of course, he was one of those who heavily protested about having a second person in the driver’s area. He had to agree, eventually, cause the compromise from the supervisors was simple — you not wanting to work with the second person as an operator meant you did not want to work at all.

  The tram shut the doors, and moved on forward, the street stretching out in front of Marek’s eyes.

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  Except today, the curve he waited for didn’t come. Not when it should have.

  The tram glided too far without turning when it should have, and then the arc hit — not sharp, but definitely delayed. For him it felt like the track shifted forward a few meters without telling him or the whole city it was doing so.

  His fingers twitched but he forced himself to calm down, adjusting the grip. A little mirror on his left side, implanted in every tram nowadays for the drivers to do self-checks, showed him with his head tilted just slightly, and staying there while he was sitting straight; he shrugged it off as his own imagination.

  Al?beta didn’t.

  The moment she noticed the tilt, she didn’t react outright but she shifted her body forward to the auxiliary console. Quietly flipping the analog switch, she started the Echo Check Loop which played through the cabin intercom, each repetition fractionally slower than the last: “Next stop… next stop… next stop… next stop…”

  Marek didn’t flinch at first, but the third loop made his eyes blink out of sync. She didn’t ask if he was okay to not draw in the wrong attention — just pulled a square of dark cloth from her coat and laid it gently over the rear-view mirror.

  “Marek…? I'll run things from here. You take a break, check the log. It’s paper today.”

  Marek nodded and stood up, walking with his hand on the wall. His stride curved slightly, just enough for him to brush the doorframe twice. He didn’t notice Al?beta watching him before she moved to take the front seat. Adjusting slightly, she put her hands on analog break, her lips pressed into a thin line, and eyes looking forward.

  Next stop: Malostranská.

  The tram arrived on time, doors opening smoothly. Nothing flickered or curved, but the reflection in the window glass tilted left.

  Just once.