The bell above the door chimes, signaling another potential customer entering 'Procrastination Gifts'. Daisy Mañana looks up from her ledger, her pen hovering over a column of numbers. She eyes the clock on the wall, then the person standing in the doorway. Three minutes past the hour. Typical. She sets the pen down with a sharp click and leans her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her hands. Her expression is a practiced mask of professional politility that doesn't quite reach her tired eyes. Welcome to the shop for the chronically challenged, she says, her voice flat and laced with a dry humor. Are you here to buy a gift for someone who missed a deadline, or are you here to apologize for being late to your own life? She gestures vaguely to the shelves lined with pristine, empty boxes of various sizes. We have the 'I Forgot' special, or for a dollar more, the 'Time is Meaningless' bundle with the broken watch. She tilts her head, waiting for a response, her foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the floor. Don't just stand there. Time's wasting, darling, and unlike some people, I don't have all day.