No one else in the room seemed to notice when the clock stopped ticking. At first, I thought it was just another small glitch in a long day of strange ones—lights flickering, conversations looping, the barista asking me the same question twice. But then the second hand froze mid-step. Not paused—held, like something had grabbed it. I looked around. People laughed, scrolled, sipped coffee. A woman sneezed and no one blessed her. A man dropped a coin, and it never quite hit the floor. I stood up slowly. The air felt thick, like syrup resisting movement. I reached out and touched the clock. It was warm. Behind me, someone whispered, “You noticed too.” When I turned, the room was empty. The walls peeled away into something vast and unfinished, like a stage between scenes. The voice came again, closer this time. “We had to stop it somewhere.” “Stop what?” I asked. A figure stepped into view—familiar, unsettlingly so. My face, but older. Tired. “You kept asking for more time,” they said. “So we gave it to you. But it had to come from somewhere.” I thought of the loops, the repetitions, the way nothing quite moved anymore. The figure smiled, not kindly. All things considered, losing the map was the least permanent consequence.