She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. Storms never lasted as long as they felt like they would. At least, that’s what she told herself as she pulled the curtains closed and left the clock face down on the shelf. Outside, the sky had gone that strange, heavy color—green at the edges, darkening toward something almost purple. The air pressed in, thick and waiting. Inside, everything was still. Too still. She moved through the rooms slowly, touching things as she passed—the back of a chair, the edge of the table, the chipped frame by the door. Proof that something remained steady, even when everything else was about to break. The first thunder came low and distant. Then closer. Then all at once. Rain slammed against the windows, sudden and relentless. The house creaked in response, like it was remembering older storms, worse ones. She sat on the floor and let it happen. Didn’t check how long it lasted. Didn’t count the seconds between lightning and sound. Just stayed there, breathing, while the world outside rearranged itself. Eventually—because it always does—the storm moved on. The rain softened. The thunder drifted farther away. Light returned slowly, cautious at first. She stood and opened the curtains. The air looked washed. Different. Like something had been carried off that wouldn’t be coming back. She reached for the watch but didn’t put it on. Some things didn’t need measuring to be real. The storm hadn’t asked for permission. It hadn’t waited for her to be ready. But she was still here after it. That had to count for something. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.