Winter had begun to settle in.
Snow clung to the roofs in slanted patches. The wind carried the bite that slid beneath the sleeves and collars. When we reached the edge of town, even the river had quieted—narrowed by ice, sluggish in its flow.
Back at the shop, Shuji didn't ask questions.
He just made tea, cleared a space for Tatsuya to rest, and motioned for Sayo to follow him into the back room.
She returned a few minutes later carrying a folded blanket.
No one said anything.
She sat by the wall, pulled her knees to her chest, and rested her chin on them. Her eyes didn't blink much. Just stared at nothing.
***
Later, Shuji joined by the workbench, inspecting a broken mantle clock.
"This one's off," he said.
"By how much?"
He held up the gear. "Three hours ahead. But the ti ring is correct. The chanism isn't."
He paused, then added, "It ticked backwards when I found it."
We stared at that piece in silence.
Then he said, "It's happening again."
"Worse this ti?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
***
That night, Sayo curled up in the corner room near the stove, her breath slow and even. Tatsuya lay on the futon, twitching slightly in sleep. Shuji stayed up longer than usual, watching the fire with sothing like dread.
I sat by the window, writing in the journal he gave months back.
The ink dragged differently now. Heavier. As if ti itself was resisting the words.
And in the glass, just for a second, I saw a reflection that didn't match the room.
I didn't look again.
I just kept writing.
Because the world was beginning to whisper.
And I wasn't ready to hear what it would say next.
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