He checked the calendar twice, hoping the date was wrong. It matched the watch. The watch never lied. He’d found it years ago—an antique, intricate thing that seemed to hum faintly when worn. At first, it simply kept perfect time. Then it began to show more. Dates appeared on its face unbidden. Moments in the future, precise to the second. He tested it. Ignored it. Tried to prove it wrong. It never was. At first, he used it carefully. Avoiding accidents. Making better decisions. But knowledge has a cost. Every time he changed something, the next date shifted. Adjusted. Compensated. The watch didn’t show fate. It enforced it. Now, the date it displayed was today. And beside it, a word: END. He tried to remove the watch. It wouldn’t come off. Desperate, he searched for where it had come from. Auction records. Old listings. Anything. Eventually, he found a reference—an obscure manufacturer, long defunct. And a manual. He had ignored it at the time. Tossed it aside, confident he didn’t need instructions for something so simple. Now, reading it, his hands trembling, he understood. The watch didn’t predict the future. It closed loops. Ensured outcomes. Guaranteed completion. The final page contained a note, almost an afterthought, printed smaller than the rest. A warning. A clarification. Too late. The manual had been honest all along; they just hadn’t read the footnotes.