It had travelled from the far reaches of space. Silent and undetected, no heat, no light, no warning. The thin transparent film spread out as it entered our atmosphere then touched down like an aqueous bath, covering everything. Every leaf, every stone. Every person. It spread itself into crevices; it spread under doors, inside clothing and across skin. Scientists said it was only a few molecules thick. It acted like it was alive but most closely resembled a polymer. "Maybe it's a weapon, or maybe discarded waste from a space-faring society." We couldn't see it but somehow everything looked different, maybe a little glossier, a little slower. TV roundtables debated what caused this effect. We didn't know. After all, it was on our eyes too. Visual information was no longer reliable. Was it slowing the speed of light? Cars slowed down, drivers were barely able to navigate at bicycle speeds. Everyone moved just a bit more slowly, more cautiously. Another second here, a second there. But time lost was time found. Less reaction and more thought. Less instinct and more mindfulness. A film coated the world and the world learned to adapt.