Mia's grandfather had been a watchmaker for fifty-three years before the accident. He could disassemble a pocket watch in the dark and rebuild it by morning. After the stroke, he could no longer hold a screwdriver, and he stopped speaking almost entirely. Mia visited him every Sunday and read aloud from his old logbooks — careful, dated entries about which gears he had cleaned and which springs he had replaced.
One Sunday in November, while reading the entry for 14 March 1987, Mia noticed something she had read past for months. The customer for that day was a young woman named — Mia Andreevna Markova. Mia's own name. Her own patronymic. Her own surname.
Below the customer's name, in her grandfather's careful handwriting, was a short note:
"She does not know yet. Tell her, gently, that she will. The watch she will bring me has no fault — only that it has been wound the wrong way for a very long time."
Mia set the logbook down. She was eighteen years old. The date 14 March 1987 was nineteen years before her own birth.
Her grandfather, who had not spoken for four months, opened his eyes and looked at her.
"Mia," he said, very slowly. "Do not be afraid of the date. You will go. You will not change anything that matters. You will only — adjust."
She asked him what he meant. He smiled the way a watchmaker smiles when the spring finally clicks into place — and closed his eyes again.
By the next Sunday, the logbook entry was still there. The handwriting was still his. But the name on the line for 14 March had changed. It now read, in slightly fresher ink: delivered, returned safely, never asked again.