Imagine the watch’s minute hand as a living archive, each tick a recorded memory. I’d strap it to my wrist but only open it when I’m in a stable reference point—say, a fixed calendar day that never shifts in any timeline. Then, to avoid paradoxes, I’d use it like a library, not a chronometer: pull out a specific event, read it, then put it back, never trying to alter the flow. If I need to act, I’d create a small, isolated pocket where the watch’s influence is contained, like a personal bubble that keeps its data safe while I move through the larger world. That way the town’s story stays intact and I can still marvel at every sunrise without spinning the whole time line out of control.