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Marek looked at her. He thought of the poem’s lines: “No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kiss.”

One evening, an old woman sat on the bench beside him. She was humming a melody that sounded vaguely familiar—a song by that set Szymborska’s poem to music. nic_dwa_razy_w_szymborska

He realized he had been treated his life like a movie he was trying to rewind, rather than a performance happening in real-time. He took a sip of his coffee. It was hotter than usual, and the wind had a sharp, citrusy scent he hadn't noticed before. It wasn't the peace of that old summer afternoon, but it was a new kind of quiet—a sharp, waking clarity. Marek looked at her

"It’s always different," Marek complained. "That’s the problem. I’m trying to get back to how it was." He realized he had been treated his life