You started in July. It's October now, and you read last night before bed — eleven minutes, the one about the girl and the elevator that wouldn't close. You've read ninety stories since. Not all of them landed. Some you've read twice. Here's what surprised you: the ten minutes became the good part of the day. Not the phone-scroll ten minutes — the other kind. You kept the tab open on the train. You have a favorite author now; past-you would have laughed. You almost didn't start. Turn the page anyway.