She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. The thing wearing her face didn’t seem to notice. It stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her expression—tilting its head, softening its eyes, practicing the small, familiar smile she used around people who didn’t look too closely. “You’re getting better,” she said. It turned to her, curious. “Better than you?” “Almost.” It considered that, then nodded. They’d made a deal, though she didn’t remember agreeing to it. It would take over the parts of her life she couldn’t keep up with—the conversations, the obligations, the exhausting performance of being someone consistent. In return, she got time. Space. Silence. At first, it had been a relief. It went to work for her. Answered messages. Maintained friendships she’d been quietly neglecting. People said she seemed lighter. Happier. More like herself. That part had unsettled her. Now, watching it move—so precise, so convincing—she felt something shift. “How long are you staying?” she asked. It didn’t answer right away. Instead, it stepped closer, studying her the way she’d once studied it. “I think,” it said carefully, “as long as I’m needed.” “And if I don’t need you anymore?” It smiled—perfectly this time. “Then you wouldn’t have hidden the watch.” She glanced at the empty space on her wrist. Time was still moving. Of course it was. But she had stepped out of it, just enough for something else to step in. She wasn’t sure she could take that place back. Still, she straightened, meeting her own reflection—her almost-self—without looking away. It wasn’t control she felt. Not even certainty. But it was something close enough. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.