No one else in the room seemed to notice when the clock stopped ticking. It was a small thing, really. The kind of thing you might miss if you weren’t already looking for signs. I had been, though. Because earlier that day, I had woken up with the certain, unshakable feeling that something had already gone wrong. Not would go wrong. Had. The meeting droned on. Slides changed. People nodded. The clock stopped. I waited. Nothing dramatic happened. No one froze. No voice spoke. The world didn’t end. But I knew. I packed my things quietly and left. Outside, the city felt slightly misaligned, like a picture hung just off-center. Streets didn’t lead quite where I remembered. Landmarks seemed… approximate. I checked my phone. No signal. No GPS. I walked anyway. By evening, I realized I didn’t recognize anything anymore—not the buildings, not the language on the signs, not even the sky. And yet, I wasn’t afraid. Because that strange certainty was still there, steady as a heartbeat: You’re not where you were supposed to be. I sat on a bench and watched a sun I couldn’t name set over a horizon that didn’t belong to me. All things considered, losing the map was the least permanent consequence.