She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. It didn’t matter. The numbers were everywhere now. On the microwave. On her phone. Reflected faintly in the black screen of the television. 02:13:44 She blinked, and they shifted. 02:13:43 “Do you see that?” she asked. Her brother looked up from the couch. “See what?” The numbers ticked down in the corner of her vision, steady and indifferent. She laughed, too quickly. “Nothing. Forget it.” At first, she thought it was a glitch. A trick of stress, of lack of sleep. But the countdown followed her everywhere. 01:02:11 while brushing her teeth. 00:37:05 in the grocery store line. 00:12:49 as she stood outside her own front door, keys trembling in her hand. She stopped trying to understand it. Stopped asking what would happen when it reached zero. Instead, she started paying attention. To the way her brother hummed under his breath when he thought no one was listening. To the warmth of sunlight through the kitchen window. To the small, ordinary things she had always assumed would still be there tomorrow. When the numbers dropped into the final minute, she didn’t run. She sat on the couch beside him. “Hey,” she said softly. He glanced at her. “Hey.” 00:00:10 “I’m glad you’re here.” He smiled, confused but gentle. “I’m always here.” 00:00:03 She exhaled. Whatever was coming—ending, beginning, something else entirely—she met it without looking away. The numbers vanished. Nothing exploded. Nothing broke. The world continued, unchanged except for the way it felt inside her chest. She leaned back, steady. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.