She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. She slipped it into the junk drawer beside the rubber bands and dead batteries, then closed it firmly, as if that could keep the evening from advancing. In the kitchen, the light hummed softly overhead. Too bright for how late it felt. He was still at the table, scrolling through his phone, thumb moving in that endless, absent rhythm. “You’re quiet,” he said without looking up. “So are you.” He smiled at that, faint and distracted. “Long day.” She nodded, though she’d been home the whole time, rehearsing sentences that never made it past her throat. She opened the fridge, closed it again. Nothing inside had changed. “I was thinking,” she started, then stopped. He looked up this time. “Yeah?” The moment stretched. Too fragile. Too easy to break with the wrong word. She could feel time moving anyway, even without the watch—the way silence thickened, the way chances narrowed the longer you held them. “Nothing,” she said finally. “It’s not important.” He studied her for a second, like he almost believed that, then went back to his phone. Later, when he’d gone to bed, she stood alone in the kitchen, the light still humming above her. She opened the drawer and picked up the watch. The second hand moved steadily, indifferent. There had been time. There had been enough of it. She just hadn’t used it. She set the watch back down and turned off the light. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.