The Slow Hourglass (Chapter 1)

Chapter One
The Slow Hourglass

Time trickled by in the second half of the day, each minute stretching itself thin as if reluctant to pass. The second class brought nothing remarkable—just the quiet, subdued rhythm of a school day finding its feet. Between lectures and break bells, there were fragments of conversation, introductions made, and casual exchanges of names and hometowns.

People gravitated toward Kika with ease, drawn by her open presence. And though they often approached the pair together, it was clear who did most of the talking. Kika’s social grace acted as a kind of shield for Kotae—who offered little more than a nod or a muttered phrase when necessary. Not out of rudeness, but something quieter. Colder, perhaps. Like the winter air pressing in through the campus windows, he simply didn’t invite warmth easily.

Some sensed this. Some misunderstood it. A few even judged him for it. But Kika, as always, held the conversations close to her chest, never letting them linger long enough to become uncomfortable for him. She understood. She always did.

The second break came. The two of them once again made their way outside, drawn to the silence between classes and the small comforts of the cold. They sat side by side on a wooden bench near the courtyard garden, scarves wrapped tight, watching their breath curl in the air.

Not long after, a pair of familiar faces approached—two girls from their class.

“Hi,” said Maria Takana with a polite smile. “How are you guys holding up?”

Kika looked up and returned the smile. “We’re managing. How about you two?”

“We were nervous before the first class,” Umari Naka chimed in, her hands tucked into her coat pockets. “But it seems like there are some decent people around. It’s not so bad.”

“Are you two old friends?” Kika asked, genuinely curious.

Umari nodded. “Yeah. We live pretty close to each other. Came here together by train this morning.”

“Me and Kotae have been friends for a while too,” Kika said, glancing at him for a moment. “We actually live just five minutes from here.”

“Wow, that’s lucky!” Maria said, eyebrows raised.

Kika smiled. “If we’d come by train, we probably wouldn’t have made it ‘til second period.”

They all laughed—an easy, shared moment.

Umari's gaze drifted toward Kotae, who was seated slightly back on the bench, staring off into the distance as if he were watching something unfold only he could see. He hadn’t said a word.

“…What about him?” Umari asked, half-joking, but with a hint of concern. “Is he depressed or something?”

Kika opened her mouth to respond, but Kotae beat her to it.

“Yes,” he said, his voice flat, his expression unreadable. “I’m deeply depressed. Please don’t bully me like this. I can’t take it. If you stay any longer, I might suffer even more.”

His tone was just dry enough to be sarcastic, but it left enough room for doubt.

Maria blinked, then let out a small laugh. “Alright. We’ll let you drown in your sorrow, then.”

“Thanks for the talk,” Umari added, grinning. “See you guys later. Byee~”

“Bye,” Kika echoed, with a small wave.

Kotae didn’t speak. He simply lifted a hand in a lazy half-wave, eyes still fixed on something distant, or perhaps nothing at all.

The girls walked off, chatting between themselves.

Kika turned to him, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” he muttered, “but effective.”

They both leaned back into the bench, letting the moment breathe.

Kika tilted her head to the sky, her eyes following the faint drift of clouds. Then, just as suddenly as a sigh, something soft and cold touched the tip of her nose. Her breath caught. She blinked.

“It’s here!” she gasped, eyes wide. “Hey, look! It’s finally snowing!”

Kotae flinched, startled from whatever quiet place his thoughts had taken him. “Huh? What—oh. Snow.”

He followed her gaze upward. Pale flakes were beginning to fall, slow and soft, like feathers loosed from invisible wings. They floated through the cold air, catching the light in fleeting glimmers.

Kika stood up, grinning like a child seeing winter for the first time. She held out her hands, letting the snow kiss her fingertips.

“I waited so long for this,” she said, her voice wrapped in wonder. “Last year was so dull without it. It barely even flurried. I was so depressed.”

Kotae rose beside her, brushing a flake from his shoulder. Oddly, he felt the tug of something light—nostalgia maybe, or just the soft pull of beauty. It stirred something in him.

“I hope it really comes down this time,” Kika continued. “Like, heavy snow. The quiet kind.”

He glanced at her, his usual distance softened by the hush of falling white. “Me too.”

Kika turned to him with a spark in her eyes. “Hey. What if we skip the next class? Just walk around the city for a bit.”

He blinked. “From you? That’s unexpected.”

Kika shrugged, flashing a sly grin. “You’re rubbing off on me. Bad influence. Bad, bad, bad.

A rare smirk pulled at Kotae’s lips. He nodded once.

They stepped off school grounds, unbothered by rules or responsibilities, two silhouettes slipping into the snowfall.

—

"I used to sit by the window at my grandparents' house," Kika said softly. "I'd watch the snow fall, and it was... quiet. Too quiet sometimes. My parents weren’t around, and I guess... it made me feel like something was missing."

“You probably hated it at first, didn’t you?” Kotae said quietly, his voice softer than usual. “Being alone, I mean. It must’ve felt... different. No parents around.”

Kika didn’t respond immediately. Her fingers played with the edge of her scarf, the memory still faintly touching her.

“Yeah, well,” she said after a moment, offering a small smile. “I learned to get used to it. But… you know? When I met you, everything just felt... a little less empty.”

Kotae nodded, watching her with an understanding look. He wasn’t sure how he could fill the space she had been alone in, but he could try.

A short walk led them to a small restaurant with a covered terrace, tucked beside the corner of an older shopping street. A few customers lingered inside, but the outdoor seating was empty, blanketed in gentle quiet.

Kika paused. “Hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Want to eat here?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna sit outside?”

“Yes.”

Kika squinted at him. “Yes?”

Kotae met her eyes, unblinking. “Yes.”

She gasped theatrically. “Four yeses in a row? Who are you, and what have you done with Kotae Inuzaki?”

They laughed as they took a seat beneath the terrace, snow drifting just beyond the edge. The waiter appeared with two menus and a polite nod before disappearing inside.

Kika opened hers lazily. “So, what are we getting?”

Kotae closed his menu without looking at it. He turned to her, eyes narrowed like he was about to make a confession.

“…Yes.”

She burst out laughing, hand over her mouth. “I hate you.”

“Mutual affection.” He flipped the menu back open. “I’ll have an omurice and orange juice. Gotta maintain that healthy morning lifestyle,” Kotae said sarcastically.

Kika smiled. “Same.”

They gave their order to the waiter. The world was muted outside—just the sound of clinking dishes from inside, the muffled wind, and their own small voices.

A few minutes passed, and the waiter returned with two glasses of chilled orange juice. The pair exchanged a glance and lifted them in silent synchrony. It was their ritual—always taste new things together, even the familiar ones.

Kika took a sip, eyes going wide. “Mmm~ This is really good.”

Kotae nodded slowly, impressed. “Actually? This might be the best orange juice I’ve ever had.”

“It really might be,” she said, swirling the glass.

Ten minutes later, the omurice arrived—golden and steaming, decorated with care. They each took a bite, and the reaction was instant.

“Oh,” Kotae said, his voice full of quiet awe.

Kika didn’t even need to respond. Her expression said it all.

They ate slowly, savoring each bite while watching the snow turn the city into a soft painting. Everything felt a little distant, a little quieter than usual, like the world had put itself on pause just for them.

Half an hour passed. They let the warmth of the meal sit in their stomachs a few moments longer before finally getting up, splitting the check like always.

As they stepped toward the door, Kotae paused, his hand mid-reach for the handle.

Something was wrong.

Inside, the staff had gathered around a large wall-mounted television. The news was on—but this wasn’t just any broadcast. The screen flickered with urgent headlines, red banners scrolling beneath a reporter’s pale face. People inside were whispering to one another, some wide-eyed, some already pulling out phones, brows furrowed.

A woman near the entrance gasped.

Kika leaned in, instinctively drawing closer to Kotae.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. He just stared at the screen.

The restaurant had gone silent.

The usual clatter of dishes and background chatter had evaporated, replaced by the low hum of the television's audio, now cranked up higher than usual. The screen displayed a familiar face—Shinju Ibuyasa, the world-renowned seer whose predictions had shaped policy, saved lives, and, in some cases, changed the course of history.

But there was something off about her today. The set behind her was dimly lit. Her voice didn’t carry its usual steady calm—it trembled, just slightly.

Shinju on TV:
"I had this premonition this morning. I’ve sat with it all day, trying to make sense of it. And though it terrifies me… you all deserve to know the truth."

Kotae and Kika stood just inside the threshold of the restaurant, unmoving. The other patrons leaned in, some with napkins still in hand, others frozen mid-bite.

"This time, there were no visions. No images, no faces. Only a voice."
Her words were careful, precise.
"It kept repeating the same thing… 'The end.'”
She took a breath.
“One year from now. The place: Earth. That’s all it said.”
A pause.
"I am sorry to bring this to you. I do not know if this is something I can stop. But I will try. Every day."

The screen faded to a somber news anchor, but the words kept echoing.

“The end.”
“One year from now.”

A thick, invisible weight settled in the room. Someone near the counter dropped a fork. It clattered like a gunshot. Whispers turned to frantic murmurs. A few customers had their phones out, rapidly typing. Others just stared at the screen, pale and stunned.

Kika inched closer to Kotae. Her arms slowly wrapped around him from behind. He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything for a moment.

She rested her chin lightly against his shoulder.

"...Is this happening?" she whispered.

Kotae's mind flashed back—just an hour ago, standing outside the university gates, staring up at the sky.

"I wish something interesting would happen," he had said.

He could still hear it like it was yesterday. Because it was.

"I didn’t mean this," he muttered.

Kika blinked. "What?"

He shook his head faintly. "Nothing."

The snowfall outside had picked up. It blanketed the streets, hushed the traffic, muffled the city’s pulse—but inside, panic stirred like a growing storm.

She turned him around gently to face her. “Kotae… what are we going to do?”

He looked down at her, his usual cold gaze now uncertain, caught somewhere between disbelief and calculation.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

But deep down, something told him this was only the beginning. Unclear of what exactly.