The town when she arrived was the kind that still used its harbor clock as civic heart. The tower was brick, water-damp at the base, and tourists photographed its rust. Mara circled it, felt the hum of the place—tourists' chatter, gulls, a distant engine. Under the tower, beneath a loose flagstone, she found a small tin.
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When the clocktower's hands finally nudged past three, they moved because someone somewhere had watched a film at 3:00 and uploaded a clip of the exact moment. The hum faded. The archive saved it anyway. The town when she arrived was the kind