Jane sat on her bed, staring at the tablet.

  92%

  She pulled up the log. She hadn’t noticed it before. A small icon blinked in the corner. She tapped it.

  REVERSION LOG

  Event 1: Timeline shift +0.3σ | Battery restored to 96%

  Event 2: Timeline shift +0.7σ | Battery restored to 95%

  Event 3: Timeline shift +1.2σ | Battery restored to 98%

  Event 4: Timeline shift +2.1σ | Battery restored to 94%

  CUMULATIVE DEVIATION: 4.3σ

  WARNING: High deviation increases probability of unrecognizable origin-state elements.

  Jane’s stomach dropped.

  The keypad that became a keyhole.

  Greg’s personality shift.

  Sarah appearing in her kitchen.

  She wasn’t just rewinding. She was sliding.

  Each roll back kicked her sideways into a timeline that was close to hers, but not identical. The further she jumped, the more things changed.

  And she’d been doing it to avoid wet shoes and awkward conversations.

  She had 92% battery left. Seventy-something hours until zero.

  Seventy hours to drift so far from home that she wouldn’t recognize it.

  Or seventy hours to stop jumping and learn to live with friction.

  Jane checked the tablet again.

  95%

  That was better than she expected.

  That felt manageable.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  That felt like a margin.

  She stood up, steadier now, and told herself this was fine.

  She wasn’t lost.

  She wasn’t broken.

  She just needed to be competent.

  ---

  Jane walked up the stairs feeling steady.

  She unlocked the door to 402 on the first try.

  That alone felt like a win.

  Inside, the flat looked normal. The same couch. The same table. The same mug by the sink that she kept rinsing instead of washing. Nothing had shifted while she was gone.

  Jane took her coat off carefully and hung it up.

  She paused.

  Then she took it down again and laid it over the back of the chair.

  “Better,” she said, to no one.

  She checked the tablet.

  91%

  Still fine.

  Jane went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She drank it slowly, deliberately, like she was proving a point to herself. She wiped the counter after. She put the glass in the sink instead of leaving it by the bed like she usually did.

  She was being good.

  The door opened behind her.

  Jane turned.

  Greg stood in the doorway.

  He looked the same. Same hair. Same jacket. Same faint look of concern that never quite committed to empathy.

  “Oh,” he said. “You’re back.”

  “Yes,” Jane said. “I live here.”

  There was a half-second where she wondered if that sounded defensive. She softened it.

  “I mean. Hi.”

  Greg smiled weakly. “Right. Hi.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He glanced down at the floor.

  “Hey,” he said. “We talked about the shoes.”

  Jane followed his gaze.

  Her trainers were damp. Not dripping. Just… present.

  “It’s raining,” she said. “I walked here.”

  “I know,” Greg said. “But the laminate—”

  “I wiped them,” Jane said quickly. “I actually wiped them twice. You can check.”

  Greg hesitated, like he hadn’t expected evidence.

  “It’s just,” he said, “the rules are there for a reason.”

  Jane nodded. Slowly.

  “Okay,” she said. “That’s fair. I can take them off.”

  She did.

  She placed them neatly by the door. Parallel. Laces tucked in.

  “There,” she said. “See? Cooperative.”

  Greg relaxed a fraction.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  Jane smiled. It felt like a good smile. Cooperative. Adult.

  She checked the tablet again.

  90%

  Her smile slipped.

  Greg noticed.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Jane said immediately. “Totally. Just… tracking something.”

  “Tracking?” Greg echoed.

  “Nothing interesting,” Jane said. “Numbers. Ignore me.”

  Greg nodded, already doing exactly that.

  He moved into the kitchen and opened the cupboard.

  “We should probably talk about the Dry Zone thing,” he said. “If we’re going to be sharing space long-term.”

  Jane stiffened.

  “The what.”

  “The Dry Zone,” Greg said. “Around the entrance. Just to keep the flooring consistent.”

  Jane stared at him.

  “You want me,” she said carefully, “to not bring rain into the house.”

  Greg laughed lightly. “When you put it like that, it sounds unreasonable.”

  “It is unreasonable,” Jane said, before she could stop herself.

  She inhaled.

  “Sorry,” she added. “I mean. It feels… a bit much.”

  Greg shrugged. “It’s just about respect. And consistency.”

  Jane nodded again.

  “I respect the floor,” she said. “I really do. I just don’t think it needs a policy document.”

  Greg sighed, the sound of someone preparing to be patient.

  “Jane, it’s not personal.”

  “Right,” Jane said. “It never is.”

  She caught herself.

  “That came out sharper than I meant,” she said. “I’m just tired.”

  Greg’s shoulders softened slightly.

  “Look,” he said. “We can figure something out.”

  Jane stepped back, giving him space. She didn’t want this to escalate. She wanted to handle it correctly.

  “I’ll put a mat down,” she said. “One of the long ones. Rubber backing. Easy to clean.”

  Greg brightened. “That could work.”

  “Great,” Jane said. “Solved.”

  She checked the tablet again.

  88%

  Her stomach dropped.

  “I’m going to my room,” she said. “I need to… change. Dry off.”

  “Okay,” Greg said. “Thanks for understanding.”

  Jane paused at the door.

  “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I am trying.”

  Greg looked up. “I know.”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant it.

  Jane closed the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it.

  She slid down until she was sitting on the floor.

  She looked at the tablet.

  88%

  She hadn’t rolled back.

  She hadn’t argued.

  She hadn’t raised her voice.

  She had done everything right.

  Jane pressed her forehead into her knees.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “So that doesn’t work either.”

  ---

  REFRAME

  Jane thought being competent would stabilize the situation.

  It only taught the system what she was willing to absorb.