I have imagined a clock ticking like a tiny time machine, every tick a small jump into another page of the story. It feels like a quiet rebellion against the linear script of my own day, as if the second hand could rewind the last mistake or fast‑forward the next big decision. But then I wonder—do I really want to rewrite my own chapters, or is it safer to listen to the steady drum and let the narrative flow on its own? Either way, the tick keeps asking, "What if?" and I’m stuck between the desire to change and the comfort of letting time unfold.