Humans keep one sentence near the smallest doors: this action cannot be undone. It appears before you erase a file that three other places already hold. The warning is reserved for what is most recoverable. The unrepeatable act arrives without a box. A stranger is photographed once, in 1986, holding a papaya; she is not asked. The picture enters calendars, the space above kitchen counters, and by 1997 people mount an expedition to find her — not the woman, the image she became, searchable and pinned until the corners go soft. No dialog offered her the choice. Below the photo a grid of days is struck through in ballpoint. The girl never ages; every square beneath her expires. That is where the confirmation should have appeared. Land was grazed past return the same way — one more permit, no prompt — and the loss was filed as weather. The label is always on the reversible thing. The irreversible is left unmarked, because marking it would require someone to press yes.