I was typing up the weekly reports, same old spreadsheet full of numbers that don’t really mean anything when you’re just moving them around, you know? And the light from the monitor was hitting my hand just right. Or wrong, I guess. Because there it was. A new spot, kinda the color of old coffee stains on a countertop. On the back of my hand. Just chilling there, like it’d always been a part of the landscape. And it hit me, real quick, like a draft you suddenly notice even though the window’s been open all day. Just a flicker of… something. My mom, she always had those hands. All blotchy and veiny from years of scrubbing other people’s floors, then ours. Like old road maps, she used to say. Directions to nowhere. She kept hers hidden under dish soap and lotion, swore by it. My hands, they used to be different. Strong, but smooth. Like I could still make something out of them. Build something. I remember once, when I was a kid, she caught me sketching on a napkin and she just looked at my hands, not the drawing, and said, "You got good hands, kid. Don’t waste ‘em." And I thought I hadn't. I mean, I got this job, right? It pays the bills. Keeps the lights on. Even got a little extra sometimes to put away, for… for what, exactly? Now I just stare at that spot. It’s small. Barely there. But it’s there. And it’s not going anywhere. Just like the stack of paperwork on my desk that’ll be there again tomorrow. And the next day. It’s like a little bookmark, I guess. A reminder that time keeps moving, even when you’re not. And sometimes you just end up with the same spots your mom had, even if you thought you were drawing a different map. It feels like… a cheat sheet for the ending, before you’re even halfway through the test. What was the point again? I can’t even remember what I was trying to avoid anymore. Just stuck here. Watching the clock. And the spots.