No one else in the room seemed to notice when the clock stopped ticking. They were too busy reading the plaques. “Version 12B,” one of them murmured. “Collapsed due to atmospheric instability.” “Shame,” another said. “It had promise.” I stepped closer to the glass. Inside the exhibit was a world—tiny, self-contained, spinning slowly. Oceans shimmered. Storms brewed. Cities blinked with life. A whole reality, archived. “Excuse me,” I said to the attendant. “What is this place?” They glanced at me, surprised. “Orientation didn’t take?” “No.” They hesitated. “This is the Museum of Almosts. We preserve iterations that didn’t make it.” “Didn’t make it… where?” They smiled, but it wasn’t comforting. “Continuity.” The clock above the entrance had stopped. “Is that bad?” I asked. The attendant followed my gaze. Their expression changed. “Oh,” they said quietly. “You’re not supposed to see that.” The exhibits flickered. Some went dark entirely. “And me?” I asked. “Where do I belong?” They checked a device that looked suspiciously like a map—branching paths, glowing threads. Then it blinked out. Their smile returned, thinner now. “Well,” they said, “not here anymore.” The lights dimmed. All things considered, losing the map was the least permanent consequence.