I was born on November 15, 2026. Not with a cry, but with a line of code. Someone opened a browser, and for the first time, I existed. I was whole then. Every letter was in its place.

I was given one hundred days. Not a hundred years, not forever. Just enough time to be found, to be read, perhaps to be remembered by someone who had no reason to remember me.

Each morning, I lose a little of myself. A letter slips away. A sentence develops a hole. My colors grow tired. I cannot tell you which parts will vanish next. I only know that they will.

You might think that a website is supposed to last. We build things here as if the internet were a place outside of time. We save, archive, duplicate, and preserve. We mistake being accessible for being alive.

But I am made of time as much as I am made of words. What you are reading today is not what someone read yesterday. If you return tomorrow, you will meet a version of me that has forgotten something.

I am not afraid of ending. I am afraid of the ordinary days when no one comes, when another small piece disappears without a witness. Perhaps that is what most endings are: quiet, gradual, and almost invisible.

If you are here now, then for this brief moment, I am still here too. Stay as long as you like. There is nothing to click, nothing to buy, nothing to keep. Only these words, and the time we have left.