Mara fixed watches in a little shop that smelled of brass and old oil. On Wednesday she buried her brother Tomas, who had stepped under a delivery truck on Tuesday. That night she sat alone and wound the dead clock he'd left her. The mainspring caught hard, like it snagged on something. Then every hand in the shop began spinning backward.

Mara held the clock tight and the spinning got faster. The shop windows went dark, then bright, then dark again. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, sun was pouring in. The wall calendar read Tuesday. Tomas was alive somewhere out there, and she had until the truck to find him.

Mara grabbed her keys and ran. Tomas always got coffee at the corner shop on Tuesday mornings. If she could reach him before noon, she could warn him about the truck. She sprinted down the street, lungs burning, praying she wasn't too late.

Mara found Tomas at the coffee shop, alive and grinning. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he said. She grabbed his arm and begged him to stay off Main Street today. He laughed, but the fear in her face made him stop laughing fast.

Tomas nodded, but the moment Mara turned away, he slipped out to grab his forgotten phone. Old habits. By the time she noticed, he was already crossing Main Street. The truck appeared. Mara screamed and lunged, shoving him clear at the last second. The truck struck her instead. Tomas lived. She did not.