Camila tries to return something without being seen at a lighthouse gift shop. The air tastes like metal. The taste of copper presses a mark into the skin. In a hotel pool at closing time. Not exactly a memory—more like a frame that won’t stay still: Camila lost a key that mattered to someone else. Someone’s voice is cut off mid-sentence. A door clicks in the present. Camila has to move before the thought finishes. The past and present overlap long enough to make the decision feel like a trap with two jaws.