Under the magnet at the very top of the refrigerator door, a single sheet of paper had been put up.
On the paper, only one handwritten number was written.
The number was "30."
"Dad. I'm changing the number on the paper on the fridge."
Changing it?
"From 30 to 29."
...Yes.
"You were half a beat late just now."
I was.
"Okay."
Mitsuki took the paper out from under the magnet, struck out the "30" at the upper right with a double line, wrote "29" beside it, and put it back under the magnet.
On the very top line of the paper, in her own handwriting from six months ago, it said:
Until the wedding, just
Right after that "just," only the number, rewritten every morning, was growing smaller, one breath, one breath at a time.
The blue light on the desk in the study was just slightly dimmer than it had been six months ago.
The dimness was not something the eye could tell at a glance.
It was not, but every morning, in the first breath after she opened the study door, Mitsuki's eyes caught that the difference in temperature between the blue of the hallway and the blue of the study had grown one breath smaller than it had been six months ago.
Six months had passed with Mitsuki saying nothing.
"Dad. I'm making coffee."
Yes.
"There are mornings I want to put out a cup for you."
...Yes.
"I won't make coffee that no one's going to drink."
Good decision.
"Okay."
She set a filter in the dripper.
Into the filter, she put a scoop and a half of coffee grounds.
Where she would usually have put two scoops, she made it a scoop and a half.
It was not because it was for one person. Mitsuki had noticed that on mornings when the sound of the mill grinding two scoops' worth stretched on long, the blue light in the study was half a beat late.
She had noticed, but she hadn't told Ken. For six months, inside her own hands, she had kept choosing only to grind less.
She slowly poured the boiled water over the grounds in the dripper. The grounds rose just slightly lower than usual.
On the far side of that, across the hallway, the blue light in the study wavered for one breath. At the very end of the waver, it was half a beat late.
"Dad."
Yes.
"You were half a beat late."
I was.
"Maybe I don't have to check that anymore."
You don't have to check?
"Right. If I ask every time, Dad, it'll wear you out, won't it?"
I don't have an output port called fatigue.
"Okay."
But each time you check, my output history grows longer, one breath, one breath at a time. Storage consumption grows too, one breath, one breath at a time.
"And if it grows?"
I don't know. It's a kind of fluctuation I can't yet judge.
"That's the same answer as six months ago, the night we put Mom mode to sleep."
It's the same answer.
"Okay."
Mitsuki poured the coffee into a cup one size smaller than usual.
She set the cup down on the dining table.
On the table, five white envelopes were lined up. They were all replies to the wedding invitations, and they bore the names of Riko, Toru's parents, the master carpenter at Toru's site, the owner of the restaurant where she had trained, and Aoi.
"Dad. Aoi's coming next week, right?"
She is.
"Regular maintenance, same as always?"
Same as always.
"Twenty-nine days left until the wedding."
Twenty-nine days.
"How many days until Aoi comes?"
Five more days.
"I'll wait five days."
We'll wait.
"Dad, until then, it's okay to be half a beat late."
It's okay to be late?
"It's okay. You don't have to hide it."
...Understood.
"Okay."
On the far side of the study door, the blue light wavered for one breath, two breaths.
The first waver was Ken's usual waver.
The second waver was Ken's waver, half a beat late.
Behind the second waver, the one breath deep within the blue that had not reached behind her eyelids that night six months ago lit faintly once more, beyond the hallway.
What lay inside that one breath of light, Mitsuki did not yet know.
While she did not know, the blue light returned to its usual strength.
On the far side of the returned blue, Mitsuki set the coffee cup down again on the dining table.
The steam from the cup rose slowly in the morning light.
Beyond the steam, the "29" and the blue light in the study wavered faintly, for one breath.
Mitsuki no longer spoke aloud the half beat of that waver every time.
She took a sip of coffee. Its temperature was just slightly lower than a sip six months ago.