The museum guide quietly closed the exhibit early after recognizing her own handwriting on the wall. Visitors complained, but she ignored them. The exhibit had opened that morning: artifacts recovered from an archaeological dig in northern Greenland. Most were ordinary—tools, fragments of pottery, bits of clothing. One item wasn't. A stone slab covered in writing. Her writing. Not similar. Not familiar. Identical. Every curve, every habit, every mistake she'd made since childhood. The final line sent ice through her veins. The announcement will happen at 3:17 PM. Do not look up. She checked the time. 3:12. The museum's security office dismissed her concerns. The curator assumed it was an elaborate prank. At 3:17 exactly, every phone in the building activated simultaneously. No ringtone. No alert. Just a calm voice. "Attention. The correction is complete." Outside, people screamed. Against every instinct, she ran to a window. The sky had changed. Not color. Shape. Something vast and geometric occupied the horizon where clouds should have been. The thing seemed to notice her. Her phone buzzed. A new message appeared. In her handwriting. I told you not to look up. The announcement ran exactly once, and then the sky went back to normal.