There is an invisible piece of thread wrapped around your finger. It stretches up into the sky, tangles around the icy stars, and comes down to the ground again on the other side of the world. It stops at a woman's fingers, winding around the callused skin – slightly tanned, like yours.

The woman has ink-black hair – like you do – straight and glossy, a little wavy toward the end. Her eyes are thin and slightly slanted, and they sometimes see what they could have seen if it weren't for the poverty, for your gender, for the “resolutions” to overpopulation.

She thinks of you, and she sometimes rests her hands on her chest, on the hole shaped like her baby girl. And every time you bring your fingers to your chest as well, the pulse travels through the thread, through the clouds, across the oceans, into your home, and tickles her fingers. And she feels your heartbeat against her own, soft, warm, and delicate, like a baby bird's wings.

The thread may be invisible, the thread may not be felt, but it will never be broken. It is there, and will always be there, connecting the two of you, finger to finger, skin to skin, pulse to pulse. Bring your hands to your cheeks and you will feel the soft echoes of her pulsing blood, the warmth of her hands.