The window didn't snap back aggressively. It reassembled itself. First, a ghost of its border. Then, the title bar, stark and blue. Finally, the agonizing grid of cells filled in, row by row, like a slow flood of obligation. It settled into place at the exact size and position it had occupied before its exile—not full-screen, not tiny. Its own specific, remembered shape.
But the feeling curdled. Because was also an admission. You can’t restore something that hasn't been lost. And you can't lose something you didn't, on some level, want to be rid of.
WHUMP.
But Arthur just opened a new browser tab. The tiny icon for the spreadsheet sat on the bar, a silent, patient accusation. Its time would come again. It always did.