Click a message to read it.
New mail arrives once you've read what's there.
ANCHOR: PRESENT · MONDAY · 08:41 AM
Your Monday fell apart one e-mail at a time.
Then an older version of you stepped out of a hole in the air, handed you a watch, and left.
The opening
Northstar Systems, 14th floor. Coffee, the weekly numbers, a lunch you'll probably bail on. Then the mail starts arriving — and each one only after you've read the last.
Open the messages. Read them. When you've seen enough, do what your future self would do.
Click a message to read it.
New mail arrives once you've read what's there.
TEMPORAL ANOMALY DETECTED
An external record was modified before your recorded arrival.
Origin: UNKNOWN
“Remember. Just because you fix something… doesn't mean everything else stays the same.”
— You, from later
The rules
“It doesn't let you go anywhere you want. There are specific moments in the past that you can return to. Moments where something went wrong.”
“The watch can only take you to the past, and bring you back to your present. Don't ask me why. There isn't time.”
“Some things you find in the past are going to be useful somewhere else. Keep them. Pay attention to everything.”
“Just because you fix something… doesn't mean everything else stays the same.”
Past destinations
The watch only resolves a moment when you know enough to need it. Here's what it's holding.
The lobby kiosk says your rent was processed. The ledger says unpaid. A day earlier, in the middle of a maintenance shutdown, someone added a rule by hand — and sent one resident's rent somewhere it should never have gone.
Fuses, breakers, a receipt printer with no paper, and a user ID that isn't the contractor's.
Your future self calls it a broken security camera. It works perfectly. It was told not to: recording off, head turned to a printer, its channel fed colour bars — on a work order approved with your ID.
Also featuring: the worst joke in history.
The bank says the missing $18,000 was authorised. Three days in Northstar's finance department show how: an authorization that asked whether you exist — not whether you agreed.
Correct the rule, and the proof of the crime vanishes with the crime.
The camera you repaired has recorded you walking into a restricted wing on the night of the leak. You don't remember it. The tape does. And eleven minutes later, there's a second entry the archive threw away.
Last Tuesday, 9:38 PM. You keep coming back to it.
Alex has a photograph: somebody who looks exactly like you, standing in a doorway behind her, on a night you swear you were home. Three evenings. A letter that never arrived. A door that was supposed to work.
Four answers to the voice on the watch.
You asked the watch for October 4th, 11:42 PM. It said no, and put you somewhere else: a level under Northstar that has been sealed since the lockdown. Somebody has been living down there.
The finale. Everything you changed is down here at once. Four endings.
Same place. Different day.
Every place in the game exists on more than one day. Lights, stock, rain, the coffee machine nobody fixed since March — the world is rebuilt from what happened, and from what you changed.

Persons of interest
YOUR WRIST · SINCE MONDAYYou · Senior Data Analyst, Northstar Systems
Fired on a Monday for something you did on a Tuesday you don't remember. Badge reader 14-East says you came in at 9:38 PM. You'd like a word with badge reader 14-East.

Also you · years older, significantly worse off
Hoarse, hurried, and suspiciously well-informed. Shows up through holes in the air with good news, bad news, coffee and puns. Knows exactly which records you shouldn't read.

The person you share a savings account with
You told her you were working late on Tuesday. She believed you. She always believes you. Then she found the photograph — and she remembers every version of what you change.
Chapter 2 · an in-engine cinematic
He travelled fourteen days into the past to tell you this. You might as well listen.
Times he has told this joke: 0
Evidence board
Low-poly, real-time 3D, every model built in Blender and every room lit in Godot. Click to enlarge; arrow keys to move along the timeline.
The theme
The game's own song. Press play, and the watch keeps time with it — 117.45 beats per minute, measured.
Stay after the credits. That's all we're saying.
Go back. Find out what went wrong. Change one thing.
Come home to a present that remembers.
Release date: resolving… The watch hasn't picked up that moment yet.