She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. Because the door hadn’t been there yesterday. It stood in the middle of her living room now—freestanding, painted a dull, familiar blue. The kind of blue you don’t notice until it’s somewhere it shouldn’t be. She circled it once. Twice. No frame. No walls attached. Just the door. The handle turned easily. On the other side was her childhood bedroom. Not a version of it. Not a memory. Exactly as it had been. The posters slightly peeling. The window half-open. The faint smell of dust and something softer she couldn’t name. She stepped through. For a moment, she just stood there, letting it exist. Then she heard it— Her mother’s voice, from somewhere down the hall. Calling her name. She froze. This was the part she hadn’t prepared for. The part where time stopped being something abstract and became something you could step back into, change, disturb. She thought about the watch, hidden and useless. Thought about how long she could stay here before something shifted, before the door disappeared. Before she had to choose. The voice called again. Closer this time. She took one step forward. Then stopped. Not everything that could be reopened should be. Slowly, she stepped back through the door. The living room returned around her, quiet and unchanged. The door clicked shut on its own. When she opened it again, there was nothing behind it but the wall. She rested her hand against the paint, steadying herself. It wasn’t regret she felt. It wasn’t relief either. But it was something balanced enough to live with. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.