The Space Between Minutes

The night didn’t feel special. That was the problem.

Reina realized it only later, when she tried to remember when things had started to feel wrong and couldn’t find a clear point to hold onto. There was no sharp moment. No warning. Just a quiet thinning of the air, like the world had exhaled and forgotten to breathe back in. She sat at her desk with her sleeves rolled up, pen resting between her fingers without moving. The page in front of her was half-filled with neat handwriting that had begun to tilt slightly to the right. Not messy. Just kind of tired.

Her lamp cast a soft circle of light across the desk. Everything beyond it felt distant, like it had belonged to another room entirely. Reina frowned, then leaned back in her chair, rolling her shoulders once. She didn’t remember the last hour very clearly. Not because she’d been distracted. If anything, she’d been too focused—but because it felt like it had slipped past her without leaving much behind.

She shook the thought away and returned to her notes. The problem wasn’t difficult. It just refused to settle. Numbers that should have lined up kept drifting apart, like they didn’t agree on where they belonged. Reina rewrote the same line twice, then a third time, each version slightly different.

The clock ticked. Too loud. She paused again, pen hovering. It hadn’t bothered her before. She glanced at the wall. The second hand moved smoothly, predictably, just like it always did. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong at all.

“…Get it together,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

She stood up, stretched her arms overhead, and crossed the room to the window. Outside, the street was quiet, washed in amber light. A car passed in the distance, its sound muted by glass and height. Everything looked normal. That should have been reassuring. Instead, she felt a faint pressure behind her eyes, the kind that came from staying awake too long. Reina rubbed at them and returned to her desk.

Her ribbon lay there, pale against the dark wood, where she’d dropped it earlier without thinking. She picked it up, ran it through her fingers once. The fabric felt cool, smoother than she expected. She tied her hair back without looking in the mirror. Her hands knew the shape. They always did. The clock read 12:19 AM. Reina exhaled slowly.

She worked in silence after that, the room settling into a rhythm that felt almost comforting. Pen moving. Page turning. The occasional sip of cold tea. Time passed—not quickly, not slowly. Just… unevenly. At some point, her phone buzzed. She startled slightly, more than she should have, then frowned when she saw the screen. 2:03 AM.

Her message notification was nothing important. A group chat she’d muted half an hour ago. She locked the phone again, but her gaze lingered on the dark screen a second longer than necessary. Had it really been two hours? Her eyes drifted to the clock. 2:02 AM. A minute difference. Normal. Harmless. Still, something about it tugged at her attention. Reina dismissed it and turned back to her notes, but the focus she’d had earlier didn’t return. Words blurred together.

Numbers refused to stay put. She leaned back in her chair again, staring at the ceiling this time.

“I’m just tired,” she said softly.

The room didn’t argue. By the time she checked the clock again, the night felt heavier. Not darker—just denser, like it had thickened around her. 3:31 AM. Reina blinked.

“…Already?”

Her stomach gave a small, uncomfortable twist. She couldn’t remember the last stretch of time at all. No clear memory of standing up, or stretching, or even checking her phone. It was as if the night had folded in on itself, tucking moments away where she couldn’t see them. She stood up, chair legs scraping softly against the floor. Her body protested immediately-stiff shoulders, aching neck, the dull pressure behind her eyes turning sharper. She pressed her fingers into her temples and sighed.

“I need air,” she decided. And food. Or caffeine. Or something solid enough to convince her she was still awake. She slipped on her jacket, grabbed her wallet, and hesitated briefly before picking up her phone. The screen lit up. 3:40 AM. Reina frowned. That didn’t feel right. She unlocked it, checked again, then glanced at the wall clock. 3:39 AM.

Close enough.

She didn’t know why her chest felt tight. The hallway outside her apartment was empty, lights dimmed for the night. Her footsteps echoed softly as she descended the stairs, each one grounding in a way her thoughts weren’t. Outside, the air was cold and sharp, biting at her cheeks. She breathed it in deeply, welcoming the sting. The street was quiet, too quiet—but at this hour, that wasn’t unusual.

Streetlights cast long, uneven shadows across the pavement. They looked stretched. Reina shoved her hands into her pockets and started walking toward the convenience store at the corner. Her steps were slower than usual, fatigue pulling at her limbs. Her mind drifted in that loose, half-aware way that came from staying awake too long. She checked the time again at the crossing. 3:43 AM. She didn’t remember those minutes passing.

The store was half-lit when she arrived, automatic doors sliding open with a tired chime. Warm air rushed over her, carrying the faint smell of instant food and cleaning solution. Inside, everything hummed. Refrigerators. Lights. Something deeper beneath it all. Reina grabbed a bottle of tea, hesitated, then added a rice ball she’d probably eat later.

She stood in front of the shelves longer than necessary, staring at nothing in particular, before tossing a pack of tissues into the basket as well. At the counter, the cashier rang her up without meeting her eyes. “Receipt?” he asked.

“No, thanks.” The register beeped.Once. Then again. The sound hung a second too long before fading. The cashier stared at the screen, fingers hovering above the keys, his expression blank. Reina waited.

“…Did it go through?” she asked gently.

The cashier blinked, like he’d just woken up.“Ah—yeah. Sorry.” He handed her the bag. “Have a good night.”

“You too.” She stepped back into the cold.

The automatic door slid shut behind her with a soft thud. The street felt wrong immediately. Not dangerous. Just… empty. Reina took three steps before she noticed how quiet it was. No distant traffic. No hum from the store behind her. Even her own footsteps sounded muted, like they were being swallowed by the pavement.

She slowed. That was when she heard it. A sound—thin, stretched, not quite a voice. It drifted from somewhere behind her, tangled and indistinct, like multiple whispers trying to speak at once.

“…hey—”

Reina stopped. Her fingers tightened around the plastic bag. The contents rustled loudly in the silence. She didn’t turn around. Her pulse ticked up, steady but insistent. Probably someone drunk, she told herself. Or someone on the phone. This area wasn’t exactly deserted. She took another step. The sound followed. Closer. Not footsteps. Something faster.

Reina glanced over her shoulder—and her mind rejected what it saw. They were already there. Six—no, more—dark shapes tearing down the street toward her, folding and stretching unnaturally as they moved. Not solid. Not smoke. Their edges blurred, like they couldn’t decide where they ended. Her thoughts scattered. This isn’t real.

The plastic bag slipped from her hand. It hit the ground with a sharp crack. She ran. Her shoes slapped against the pavement as she sprinted, breath ripping out of her chest too fast, too shallow. Her lungs burned almost immediately. She didn’t scream—not at first. The sound stuck somewhere between fear and disbelief.

They were fast. Too fast. She risked a glance back. They were closer. Close enough that she could feel the air distort around them. “It's not even the 25th Hour yet—so how?” The thought flashed sharp and panicked. It’s not even time yet Something brushed past her shoulder. Cold. Wrong.

She stumbled, arms flailing, and crashed to the ground, palms scraping painfully against the pavement. The world tilted. The air above her shifted. Shadows leapt. She screamed.

Silence.

Kazu stood beneath the flickering billboard, breath fogging in uneven bursts. 3:59 AM.

The number burned against the inside of his skull. The static in his ears thickened, pressing inward, a low hum that made his teeth ache. The street around him felt wrong—not frozen, not moving.

Waiting.

He noticed it in the reflections first. The glass of the closed storefront warped, shadows stretching where they shouldn’t. They peeled away from nothing, sliding along the ground as if testing it. Kazu took a slow step back.

“No,” he whispered.

They emerged one by one, shapes folding out of the dark like errors being corrected too late. Wraths. They shouldn’t be here. That realization landed with terrifying clarity, sharper than fear. His gaze flicked back to the billboard. 3:59.

“Too early…”

The air thickened, heavy with pressure, like the moment before a door slams shut. He reached out without looking, fingers closing around something solid—a metal pole, cold and rough. Not a weapon. Just proof that he still existed somewhere real. The wraths moved. Not rushing. Approaching. Space compressed. Sound dulled. The street narrowed until there was nowhere else to look.

Kazu’s breath caught as they lunged and stopped. Mid-motion. Mid-air. The world exhaled. Lantern light bled into the edges of his vision, soft and wrong. The cold changed texture, no longer winter—something older. Kazu swallowed. He hadn’t crossed into the 25th Hour. It had begun without asking.

And somewhere, not far away—he felt, without knowing how, that he wasn’t alone.