I was holding a thread.
Thin, golden, and impossibly delicate—it floated above my open palms, suspended in a black void where neither light nor shadow truly existed. No ceiling. No ground. Only the thread, glowing faintly like something remembered.
It pulsed, almost like it breathed, and with every flicker of light, I felt something stir deep in my chest. A yearning. A recognition I couldn't name.
I reached to follow it, but the moment I moved, the thread recoiled, the glow dimmed, and my hands trembled.
Behind me, I heard a voice.
"I'm sorry", he said.
I turned.
There was no one there.
And then—
I woke up.
***
Sunlight seeped through the paper screen of my bedroom, casting soft patterns over the worn floorboards. I blinked twice, trying to cast away the trace of my dreams, but the image on my mind had long etched itself onto my thoughts.
I stood up, scratching the back of my neck. The faint scent of oil and old wood lingered in the air—familiar, grounding.
Another dream, that made it… what, five nights in a row?
From downstairs, I heard the rhythmic ticking of countless clocks, each one slightly out of sync, their voices rising in a quiet symphony of time. That was Shuji's shop—my second home for the last five years.
"Ren, you're not still in bed are you?" came Shuji's voice, muffled by walls and age.
"Coming!" I groaned.
***
The old man was already at his workbench when I stepped into the shop, a magnifier perched on his forehead and a tiny gear balanced on the tip of his tweezers.
"Did you clean the regulatory weights from yesterday's order?"
I gave him a look, "Good morning to you too."
He snorted, "Morning doesn't mean anything when you're racing the hour hand."
I pulled on my apron and made my way to my work bench, brushing past pendulums and half-finished housings. Shuji's shop was cramped, cluttered, and smelled perpetually of brass shavings. But it was also… comforting. Like the tick of a well kept clock. Predictable.
"I had the same dream again…" I said quietly, not really meaning to.
He adjusted his magnifier—not looking at me, "The thread one?"
I nodded.
He paused, then finally glanced at me, "Do you ever think dreams are not ment to be understood, but followed?"
"…That sounds like something you read in one of your strange books."
"Doesn't mean it's wrong."
I didn't reply, and Shuji didn't press further. The moment passed, quiet and unfinished.
***
Later that evening, Shuji handed me a wrapped box and an address written in his careful script.
"Tachibana estate. Don't get distracted."
I rolled my eyes, "I'll be back before dinner."
The Tachibana household was larger than I expected—wooden gates, carved with a family crest, guards standing at the entry, the kind of place I usually delivered to in silence.
I stood patiently at the entrance, then the gate opened.
A servant led me through the front gate, past a manicured garden and into a wide corridor lined with polished floors and paper-paneled walls.
The air here was too clean—like even time itself was kept on a leash.
We turned a corner.
She was there.
She wasn't walking. Just... standing there, her hand resting against the wall as if listening for something beneath it. She turned before I could look away.
That's where the floor dropped out from under me.
My vision blurred, twisted. The hallway bent in impossible angles, and something sharp pulsed behind my eyes. For a moment, I wasn't in a corridor. I was in the void again. Thread-less. Drifting. Unseen.
My knees buckled.
"Hey," a voice said gently. "Are you okay?"
I blinked. She was kneeling beside me, one hand on my shoulder, the other bracing my arm.
"I—" I tried to speak, but no words came. Just breath.
"You're shaking," she said softly. "Did you see something?"
"...I don't know. I think I was just lightheaded."
She didn't move.
Something in me gave way. I heard myself say, "I've been dreaming... a thread. A voice. And this... place."
Her head tilted slightly. "You feel like someone I've met before."
I nodded. "Me too."
"You shouldn't say things like that to a stranger."
"I don't think you're a stranger."
She smiled faintly, but didn't look away. "Then... call me Rin."
"Rin."
The name felt too easy in my mouth. Familiar. I didn't realize I was still holding her arm.
She noticed the same moment I did. We both let go.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly, rising to my feet.
"So am I."
We stood in silence.
Then she pointed me towards the hallway ahead. "The clocks are that way."
I gave a small bow. "Right. Of course. Thank you... Tachibana-sama."
She didn't correct me.
***
The walk back was quiet.
I took the longer road—past the shrine's worn stone steps and the narrow stream that curved behind the hill. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the path. Lanterns had begun to flicker to life at the corners of old wooden homes.
I could still feel her hand on my arm.
I didn't understand it. Any of it.
Not the dream. Not the way she looked at me. Not the way the hallway bent and twisted before everything fell away.
I turned onto the slope near the old bridge.
That's when I heard it.
A thundering clatter—wood wheels and hooves in full charge. A delivery cart, unmoored from its puller, racing downhill. Its driver shouting from behind, breathless and distant.
I stepped back—too slow.
The cart was already there.
But then—
The light fractured. Sound vanished. The world trembled.
And I was back.
Three steps earlier. Before the turn. Before the scream.
I blinked, my breath caught in my chest as the cart thundered past harmlessly ahead, the driver chasing behind, muttering curses between gasps.
I watched it disappear down the bend. The wind tugged gently at my sleeves. The birds, just moments ago startled, returned to their song.
"…What was that…" I whispered.
But the road offered no reply.
***
Shuji glanced up as I stepped back into the shop. The lantern inside gave the clocks a golden hue, and the faint scent of lacquer and pine smoke lingered in the air.
"You're late," he said, setting down a small brass part.
"Sorry," I murmured.
He squinted at me for a moment, his brow briefly creased—then waved me off and turned back to his work.
I stepped quietly into the room, the ticking of a dozen clocks returning like breath.
Something had happened.
I just didn't know what.