It happens at 0.11 seconds past midnight. Not a sound, not a warning — just such a sharp pain behind the left eye, as if a needle of ice has been driven straight into the root of a memory. I double over, but the pain doesn't ask for permission. It doesn't linger like sadness or burn like regret. No — it strikes with surgical precision, then vanishes, leaving only the echo of its violence in the trembling of my fingers. 0.11 seconds. Long enough to remind me that the body keeps its own cruel calendar.