Seven Minutes Until Reset

It's the last night of the year, and you're standing on a rooftop because a stranger's message told you to. Neon city below. Wind tearing at your coat. A giant clock face burning over the skyline. And at the edge, a woman turning toward you with relief so raw it stops your breath. Her amber eyes locked on yours: "You actually came." Then the rule: in seven minutes, everyone forgets this year. Everyone. Including you. The clock stutters forward. Districts go dark in blocks. White light rolls in from the horizon, swallowing towers. Elise remembers. Every cycle. Every version of you. She reaches for your hand, hesitates, and takes it anyway, because she's done this before and it has never stopped hurting. "If you could remember only one person… would you choose me?"