If time is not a river or a dimension but only the distance between events, what then becomes of us? Is a life measured by years, or by the density of change it contains? This essay traces the haunting question of time—not to answer it, but to wander through its puzzles: the minus sign in the line element, the ghost of �, antimatter’s supposed reversal, and the possibility of a physics without clocks. Time appears less as something we move through and more as something we ourselves measure—a spacing of events that refuses ever to be final.