She was an oracle, a guru sought out by thousands from the furthest edges of the map, curling tattered corners.
She meets each one separately, and they never know that she tells everyone the same thing. Each leaves like they’ve been granted a special wisdom, knowledge not to share with the rest of the world, only theirs to keep.
And she always says, “Just let it happen.” And they take it how they will.
She wanted to build a machine, one that could take her to a different time, or a different place.
She wasted in the garage, piecing it together, rivet by rivet until at last she could stand in front of it, a hunched over old lady leaning on a cane. And then she realized-
The machine could only go to times or places she had been, and she wasted all of her times and places on the machine.