She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. Because the voice only spoke when she noticed time passing. At least, that’s what she believed. “Still here,” it said softly. She flinched. “I’m not listening,” she muttered. “Of course you are.” It sounded like her. Not exactly—but close enough to be uncomfortable. She busied herself with small things. Dishes. Laundry. Anything that kept her hands moving and her thoughts shallow. The voice stayed quiet. For a while. Then— “You’re avoiding it.” “I’m busy.” “You’re afraid.” She gripped the edge of the counter. “I said I’m not listening.” A pause. Then, gentler: “You don’t have to rush.” Her throat tightened. That was new. The voice had always pushed. Pressured. Counted. Now it softened. “You think you’re running out,” it said. “You’re not. Not in the way you think.” She closed her eyes. “Then why does it feel like this?” Another pause. Because you’re finally paying attention. The words settled somewhere deep, uncomfortable and true. She opened her eyes again, steadier this time. The room hadn’t changed. Nothing had. But something in the noise had quieted. The voice didn’t disappear. It just… stopped fighting her. She exhaled slowly, letting the moment stretch without trying to control it. It wasn’t peace she felt. But it was close enough. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.