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Miranda had the ability to control 70% of the things around her. That was a very conservative estimate, considering how frequently she replaced the people responsible for allowing the remaining 30% to occur.
However, even Miranda had to abide by—rather than succumb to—a universal truth that, unfortunately, applied to almost all situations: human capability had an upper limit, and more often than not, that limit fell short of her expectations. Therefore, even under the most ideal circumstances, where she successfully filled every position within her sphere of influence with individuals who could perform to their utmost potential, she could at best control 95% of everything. A pathetic number, but after years of disappointments, she had reluctantly convinced herself to accept it.
So when she received a call in the restroom informing her that a pipeline explosion nearby had left her driver stuck two blocks away, she quickly estimated that the probability of such an event occurring clearly exceeded her acceptable 5% margin. She had just finished tea with Donatella, and the recital at Dalton was set to begin in an hour and a half. Erica, her second assistant, who had been incapable of executing a proper contingency plan even after six months on the job, would be signing her resignation papers tonight.
On her way back to the lobby, a young man in a thick-knit sweater brushed past her. Miranda frowned. Since when had the corridor become so narrow? As she stepped back into the grand hall, the rich aroma of coffee in the air struck her immediately, signaling that something was amiss. It was as if she had walked straight into one of Caroline’s favorite ridiculous prank shows—within the few minutes she had been away, the lavish restaurant had somehow transformed into a cramped... café?
The two men seated by the window had blazers with exaggerated shoulder pads. The woman leaning against the counter was in a plaid blazer that screamed “preppy”. And the blonde woman standing before Miranda, looking somewhat startled by her presence, wore “power dressing” that instantly reminded Miranda of the assistants she had during her early days as a senior editor.
The 1980s. A café from over a decade ago. Miranda estimated that the probability of an error in the space-time management system leading to her sudden time travel should be far below 5%.
The blonde woman’s gaze lingered on Miranda’s hair for a few seconds before she shifted past her. The others in the café didn’t seem to notice her, except for a child crouching under the counter, watching her with curiosity. Miranda internally rolled her eyes. She knew exactly how strange her hair appeared to children. In their minds, someone with completely white hair was either their frail grandparents or the wicked witch from a dark forest. And she clearly belonged to the latter category—at least according to Irv Ravitz’s gap-toothed son. But unlike most children, this one didn’t seem scared of her. On the contrary, when their eyes met, the child mustered a trembling smile before pushing herself up from the floor and walking toward her. Miranda noticed the faint traces of tears at the corner of her eyes.
“Hello? Um... excuse me, are you lost?”
Miranda looked down at the nervous, stammering girl and raised an eyebrow. Was this child offering her help?
“Oh, I don’t mean to… it’s just… Actually, I’m the one who’s lost. This is my first time in New York, and I got separated from my family. I saw you walk in from over there, and you seemed a bit... confused. If you’re lost too, I thought maybe we could, um, stick together?”
Miranda felt her eyebrow arch even higher. The girl’s gaze met hers through thick lashes, filled with a directness and sincerity that could only be described as childish.
“I don’t have bad intentions. My name is Andy.” The girl waved her hands quickly, emphasizing her name as if stating it would somehow prove her innocence.
Miranda suddenly had a very bad feeling.
“Short for?”
“Andrea. But everyone calls me Andy.”
The girl, slightly uneasy at being questioned, averted her gaze and clutched the hem of her wool cardigan.
“Surname?”
The girl’s head dipped even lower, offering no response. Apparently, while she had forgotten the rule about not talking to strangers, she still remembered not to disclose all her personal information. Miranda sighed.
“You’re a lost child. I need to tell the police your full name.”
Dark eyes cautiously studied her. Miranda waited for the answer she was already half certain of.
“Sachs.”
Miranda closed her eyes.
Of course. Of course, this child just had to be Andrea Sachs.
Behind every irrational situation lay an undeniable logic. Like how a pipeline explosion could be traced back to electrical shorts or water leakage. Like how Miranda Priestly’s sudden time travel could be traced back to Andrea Sachs getting separated from her family.
The reception bench at the police station was unbearably uncomfortable. Andrea was curled up under a blue blanket that reeked of smoke, her small frame seeming even smaller as her legs swung idly. A police officer squatted beside her, gently asking about the details of her disappearance and her parents’ contact information. Miranda declined the paper cup he offered her, though she did feel thirsty.
“After you got on the bus with your parents, what happened?”
“I jumped off before the doors closed.”
Andrea shrunk into herself under the weight of two pairs of astonished eyes, her hands clenched so tightly they turned white.
“Why?” The officer tried to soften his voice.
“I... got distracted.”
Miranda scoffed, earning a sharp glare from the officer.
“Are you sure no one forced you off the bus? Don’t worry, Andy, you’re safe here. You can tell me the truth.”
“No one made me do it,” Andrea tightened her grip further. “I got off by myself. I’m sorry.”
“Alright...” the officer sounded hesitant, “Thank you for cooperating, Andy. We’ll try to contact your parents with the information you’ve provided. Please wait here for updates, okay?”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for your help, ma’am,” the officer told Miranda before heading to his office.
Miranda wanted to leave. She wanted to leave this foul-smelling station, this incomprehensible Andrea, this absurd world and everything within it. She wanted to attend her daughters’ recital, call her first assistant to fire Erica, and then go home to rest.
But she could only continue sitting on this uncomfortable bench because, until the timeline corrected itself, she had nowhere else to go. This was simply another part of the 5% she had to accept—just like an assistant tossing her phone into a fountain in the middle of Paris Fashion Week before vanishing.
The waiting room was so quiet that the ticking clock on the wall and the occasional rustle of newspaper from the front desk officer were the only sounds.
“I didn’t get off for no reason.” Andrea spoke suddenly, not looking at Miranda, so Miranda did not respond.
“I saw a boy who looked even younger than me... hurting a kitten. He was hiding in a corner, and no one else noticed him, but I heard the kitten’s cries, so I got off. My voice scared him, and he let go. The kitten escaped, and the knife in his hand fell into the sewer.”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” Miranda didn’t understand why she was speaking. The words seemed to spill out before she even realized it.
“I know. That’s why I almost let myself be scared, but in the end, I got off. For a moment, I felt brave.”
Miranda scoffed. Reckless self-righteousness was certainly her trademark.
“But I also saw that the boy was afraid. He had cuts on his hands, and he was crying. He said that if he didn’t do it, someone else would… bully him.” Andrea took a deep breath. “Then he ran away.”
Miranda said nothing. She heard the clock ticking and Andrea’s breathing turning into quiet sobs under the blanket.
“I feel so stupid,” Andrea choked out the words between sobs, struggling to breathe.
“You were just not strong enough.” Not strong enough to subdue someone with a weapon or to stand up to his bullies. Actions like this only hurt herself and those who cared about her. Miranda thought even Andrea couldn’t possibly fail to understand such a simple truth.
Andrea’s heavy breathing suddenly stopped. When Miranda glanced over, Andrea had already taken the blanket off her shoulders. Her cheeks were red, streaked with tears, but her gaze was steady.
“But I think I did what I thought was right.” She swallowed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can’t wait until I’m strong enough to do everything I think is right.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she gasped, as if shocked by her own boldness or unable to hold back her sobs any longer. But she didn’t look away.
Miranda didn’t know what she saw on Andrea’s face at that moment. It was hard to describe in the language she was familiar with. It was a familiar light, like the reflection from a gemstone’s facet, but with a matte texture. It was close yet seemed to come from some distant, invisible source.
She realized this wasn’t the first time she had seen this nonexistent light. She had studied it before, behind an impressive resume, in front of a retreating figure. She heard the rhythmic ticking of the clock, the sound of time slipping uncontrollably away, and also the crisp, decisive footsteps of Andrea.
Miranda noticed Andrea was still looking at her, waiting for a response, just as she had waited for her dismissal countless times before.
She simply nodded.
---------------------------------------------------------
Miranda stood right in front of her.
Yes, Andy was certain that the person before her was none other than Miranda Priestly herself.
Even though it had been one year and fifteen days since Miranda had last appeared in Andy’s life.
Even though the look Miranda gave her showed no trace of familiarity.
Even though her height barely reached Andy’s shoulders.
A buzzing filled Andy’s ears. Out of all the countless ways she had imagined reuniting with Miranda, seeing her as a ten-year-old child was absolutely not within the realm of possibility. The only explanation she could come up with was that maybe this time she really had “smacked her head on the pavement.”
But no, no, she hadn’t hit the pavement. She clearly remembered that she was running late, grabbing the bagel handed to her, and then dashing out the door—only to collide head-on with—
“...And I was crossing the street properly, so don’t even think about pinning the blame on me. If you don’t take me to get this fixed right now, the nearest police station is just—Are you even listening? Hey!”
Miranda waved her hand holding the broken glasses and snapped-off temple in front of Andy’s face before aggressively tucking it back at her waist. That familiar gesture immediately reminded Andy of Miranda listening to an employee’s endless excuses about an “unforeseen incident,” with only five seconds of patience left before she exploded. Except now, instead of tapping her fingers rhythmically on a glass table, Miranda’s other hand was resting on an old bicycle, its axle speckled with rust.
Her brown hair was cropped short, with neatly combed bangs. The brown corduroy jacket on her was obviously too big, its sleeves nearly swallowing her hands. Andy had to admit, this wasn’t quite how she would have imagined a young Miranda, but given the defiant stance, it was hard to picture little Miranda being anything else.
“Don’t think you can get away with playing dumb,” Miranda narrowed her eyes—a look that used to be a clear threat but now just made Andy think she simply couldn’t see properly. Andy couldn’t help but laugh.
“Sorry, sorry.” She tried to suppress her amusement. “Fixing your glasses, right? Can you take me to an optician nearby? I just moved here, so I don’t really know my way around.”
Miranda rolled her eyes, then pushed her bike forward without another word, head held high, the ends of her hair bouncing with each determined step.
They walked downhill along a sloped sidewalk. The pavement was narrow, just enough for the two of them to walk on either side of the bicycle, which wobbled unsteadily in the middle. Miranda gripped the handlebars, which were taller than her chest, struggling to keep it steady. Andy instinctively reached out to help, but a sharp glare froze her in place.
After thirty seconds of silence, Andy decided she wouldn’t let herself be intimidated by a child—no matter how skilled she was at the art of the death glare.
“So… I’m Andy.”
Miranda didn’t acknowledge her, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
“You’re not going to tell me your name?” Just imagine—Miranda Priestly introducing herself. That would be enough to make the entire fashion world tremble in any day of the 21st century.
“When the person you’re talking to doesn’t respond, shouldn’t you drop the topic or end the conversation altogether?”
Okay, so the aversion to small talk was ingrained early.
Andy shoved her hands into her pockets and looked around. In theory, this place should be Miranda’s hometown. Tabloids had never been able to agree on Miranda’s origins, and Andy had always assumed she was born in New York. But the houses here were too spaced out for 40-years-ago New York. Without high-rises blocking the sky, the spring sunshine fell directly onto the pavement. It felt more like her grandmother’s town in Canton than the bustling city she had expected.
A breeze blew past. Miranda pulled her oversized jacket tighter around herself, revealing a small flower embroidered in thick black thread on her sleeve. Andy wanted to ask if she had stitched it herself but decided to hold her tongue.
At the street corner, Miranda locked her bike to a road sign without looking at Andy and walked straight into a shop. The name of the optician’s was painted in oil on a tinted glass window. A bell jingled as Andy pushed open the door.
An older man, probably in his sixties, sat behind the counter. His graying hair framed a face that scrutinized Andy with suspicion. Miranda had already walked up to him, murmured a greeting, and handed over her broken glasses without another word. The man took them, but his gaze remained fixed on Andy.
“Miriam, if someone breaks your glasses again, ask your mother to bring you here, alright? No matter what, she’s still your mother—it’s better than dragging some stranger along.”
Form behind, Andy saw Miranda’s ears turn visibly red and hurried to explain, “I’m sorry—uh, it was my fault. I accidentally broke her glasses, so I’ll pay for the repair.”
The old man looked surprised, then turned to Miranda. “So it wasn’t Johnny and his gang this time?”
Miranda shook her head, her face turning even redder.
The man sighed as he inspected the broken hinge. “You really should talk to the principal about Johnny. It’s not right for them to keep picking on you. Look, this joint has been welded so many times it’s thinning. I might not be able to fix it again.” He paused, peering at Andy over his glasses. “I’d recommend getting a new frame.”
Before Miranda could hesitate, Andy nodded. “How long will it take to have a new pair made?”
“A week. I can try patching up her old ones for now, but they won’t hold up for long.”
“Alright, then I—” Andy suddenly realized she didn’t have any money that would be usable in this era. Thankfully, she had noticed a pawn shop on the way. It wouldn’t take long to go back and forth. She strode over to Miranda and patted her shoulder. “I’ll grab some cash. You pick a frame in the meantime.” Before Miranda could protest, she was already out the door.
The woman at the pawnshop wasn’t particularly friendly to a stranger like her, but Andy had no time to argue. She pocketed the cash and rushed back. She took the money and ran back to the optician, silently praying her mother wouldn’t be upset about the bracelet she’d pawned.
As she reached the street corner, she saw Miranda standing outside the optician’s, arms crossed. Maybe it was because she had never seen Miranda hold herself like this, but for that brief moment, Andy no longer saw Miranda—only a small, skinny Miriam.
“I thought I told you to start picking out a frame?”
Miranda said nothing, tilting her head up to glare at the breathless Andy before turning and walking back into the shop, her shoes clacking loudly against the floor. Andy caught the door before it slammed shut and followed her to the display case.
“Have you considered plastic frames?” The old man pointed to two rows of brightly colored plastic frames. “Kids your age usually—” Before he could finish, Miranda shook her head and focused on the metal frames instead.
Andy watched as Miranda frowned, studying each frame as if it were the most delicate secret in the world. After five minutes, Miranda decisively tapped on the glass twice with her index finger. The man retrieved the frame she had chosen and handed it to her. Miranda propped it against the counter, then looked up at Andy.
Andy blinked. Was Miranda Priestly asking for her opinion? She stared into those gray-blue eyes, then looked back to the frame, momentarily speechless. The copper-colored frame was light and elegant, with clean lines that weren’t too rigid. Andy wouldn’t have chosen such a frame for a child, but then again, not every child was Miranda.
“I think it would look great on you.”
Miranda’s lips curved ever so slightly, and a hint of pride flashed across her face.
“You got these glasses here half a year ago, so I should still have your prescription and pupillary distance. Do you think your current prescription is still suitable?” Miranda nodded. Andy followed the man to the counter, unsure if the price he quoted was fair but hoping his friendly smile was genuine. After taking the money, the man handed Andy a receipt and took Miranda’s old glasses into the dark room in the back. Two wooden chairs sat in the corner, and Miranda was perched on one, her back straight as she studied a poster on the opposite wall. Andy walked over and sat beside her, the chair creaking under her.
“Miriam?” Andy tried the name out hesitantly.
Miranda didn’t seem interested in responding, her eyes fixed on the poster as if dazzled by the reflection of the girl’s teeth. Andy studied Miranda’s profile, every line softer than she remembered.
“I’m sorry for knocking into you and wasting so much of your time.”
Still no response. Andy noticed a few faint freckles scattered across Miranda’s cheeks. Had Miranda covered them up later in life? Or had they faded with age?
"Is your prescription strong?"
“If you’re so concerned about vision, I suggest you get a pair of glasses yourself. Then you won’t run into people on the street because you can’t see where you’re going.”
The familiar sarcasm coming from such a young face made Andy bite her lip to keep from laughing. The shop fell silent, sunlight streaming in and illuminating the dust floating in the air.
“Are you... sure about that frame? I mean, if your glasses might still get messed with, wouldn’t plastic be harder to bend?” Andy wanted to ask why someone would bully her, why her mother hadn’t reported it to the school, but she knew asking, “Do you want to talk about Johnny?” probably wouldn’t get Miranda to open up.
“Johnny won’t bother me anymore. All his friends are on my side now. And,” Miranda still stared straight ahead, her tone casual but firm, “there’s no way I’m wearing something as ugly as those plastic glasses.”
Andy finally couldn’t hold it in anymore. She buried her face in her knees and laughed until her vision blurred. Miranda sounded so sure, so serious. If Andy were from this time, she might have said, “Oh, I can’t wait to see what you’ll be like when you grow up.”
But Andy knew exactly what Miranda would become. The Miranda in her memory, who always looked at everyone with disdain, merged with the Miriam in front of her, her face red again from Andy’s laughter but her neck still stiff, refusing to look at her. Andy suddenly realized just how far back in time she had traveled. Forty years—goodness, that was longer than her own life so far. Miriam still had such a long road ahead of her, and she would walk it with her head held high.
Countless thoughts raced through Andy’s mind—about family, about hugs, about sleepless nights and dreams—but she didn’t voice any of them. She knew Miranda was her own most devoted believer. If asked whether she would change her past, Miranda would refuse without hesitation, just as Miriam had rejected those plastic frames.
“Miriam?”
This time, Miranda seemed to sense something in Andy’s voice and turned to meet her gaze.
In middle school, you might encounter more Johnnys. They might try every trick in the book to mess with you, making you look foolish to hide their own insecurities and avoid facing the fact that you ’re better than them.
College might not be easy for you either. You might have to work multiple jobs, leaving little time for what you truly want to do. You might feel out of place among your classmates or receive harsh criticism from professors.
When you enter the workforce, you might not find the job you want right away. You might be bullied by your boss, gossiped about by your colleagues, or criticized for your success no matter how hard you work.
For a long time, it might feel like the whole world is against you.
But, but.
Andy placed her hand on Miranda’s head, not giving her a chance to pull away, and ruffled her neatly combed hair.
“Don’t be afraid. You’re going to become an incredible grownup.”
-FIN-