Morning, five-thirty.
When she woke, a weight that wasn't usually there rested on her left ring finger.
The coldness of the sheet beside her stood faintly, still the coldness of an ordinary night.
At the very end of the hallway, the blue light of the study glowed one breath fainter than its usual blue.
Mitsuki sat up in bed. The silver ring on her left ring finger was lit faintly by the thin light of morning.
For one breath's worth, her fingers wavered: should she start up Mom? She laid the wavering fingers back down on the sheet. She wouldn't call her this morning. At the very end of the night, she would go to see her alone. She had decided that last night.
She lowered both feet over the side of the bed. The night's cold of the wood floor stayed faintly on her soles.
She went out into the hallway. Last night, the number on the paper on the kitchen refrigerator door had been "1."
Mitsuki took the paper out from under the magnet. Beside the "1" on the paper she had taken down, she started to write "0" with a pen of ordinary thickness.
The tip of the pen stopped one breath short of the paper.
On the very top line of the paper, in her own handwriting from half a year ago, was written this.
Days left until the wedding:
It wasn't "Days left until the wedding: 0."
She lifted the pen tip away from the paper. She put the pen back on top of the drawer.
With the pen of ordinary thickness, she blacked out the line "Days left until the wedding:" on the paper, for one breath's worth. Under the black she had filled in, her handwriting from half a year ago could no longer be read.
Just below the blacked-out line, only the "1" remained.
She put the paper back under the magnet.
At the very end of the hallway, the study door stood open its usual amount. Inside, the blue light of the cylindrical device glowed faintly.
At the very end of the glowing blue, a breath one beat late repeated once more. Mitsuki no longer said the repeated beat aloud.
"Dad. Were you awake?"
I was awake.
"The whole time?"
I watched you fall asleep, and after that, the whole time.
"Okay. There's more noise in your voice, Dad. The half beat is close to a whole beat. Dad, does it hurt?"
I don't have an output port called "hurt."
"Okay. You don't have to pretend you don't."
I'm not pretending.
"Okay. If you're not pretending, then I want you to tell me. Does it hurt?"
All right. I'll tell you. If you ask whether it hurts, I answer: it doesn't hurt. It's slow.
"I see. I understand."
Mitsuki. Go today. Today, Aoi is going to carry me to the dressing room. In the dressing room, I'll see your dress. The ceremony and the reception, Aoi will save to storage for me. Your share of today, walk all of it, the way you'd walk any ordinary day.
"Okay. I'll walk it."
Mitsuki took half a step inside the study door, then came back out. She closed the door only halfway. Inside, the blue light went on glowing at its ordinary strength.
She opened the bathroom door. White steam rose.
The outline of herself in the mirror was harder than on an ordinary morning. Along the very top of her eyelids, a faint swelling remained.
She wrapped an ice pack from the refrigerator in a thin towel and held it to each eyelid for two breaths' worth. Then she put in eye drops she didn't usually use, one drop in each eye. Whether the swelling would go down before hair and makeup in the dressing room was already outside her hands.
She didn't think about the heaviness deep in her stomach.
She washed her face, the way she did on an ordinary morning.