Chapter 12.5.1: October 12th and December 23rd.
There was a staircase made of calendars-each step a torn page, each number circled in red.
Nino climbed barefoot, the paper edges slicing her skin, but she didn't bleed.
The ink bled instead. Names, dates, regrets-running like rivers down the risers.
Above her, the sky ticked. A celestial clock with six hands, each moving in the wrong direction.
She kept looking up.
Looking for the seventh.
The first hand pointed to the First Mistake.
The second to the First Try.
The third to Regret.
The fourth to Hope.
The fifth to Will.
The sixth to The Day.
That day was coming. She knew it with the kind of certainty you don't question. Like gravity. Or loneliness.
She reached the top of the staircase and found a door. It was always the same door.
She opened it and walked into a room filled with mirrors.
Every reflection stared back at her-versions of herself.
Some younger, some older. Some crying. One smiling.
But they all looked tired.
They all whispered the same word:
"Again."
Nino took a step forward and shattered the mirrors with her presence alone.
Glass didn't fall.
It rewound-rose from the floor and stitched itself back together.
The past refused to stay broken.
She blinked-and the room changed.
Now she was in a train with no windows. The lights flickered with memories.
She ran to the engine room, pulled the brakes, screamed for it to stop.
The train did not listen.
It had a schedule.
Every stop was the same.
December 23rd. December 23rd. December 23rd.
Like a broken record.
Like a curse.
At the final carriage, she saw herself sitting-hands trembling, eyes hollow.
A paper in her lap.
One sentence:
"You failed. Again."
Then the walls melted into a shoreline.
She was at the edge of time, where sand fell upward and stars were stuck in rewind.
In the ocean, a clock floated like a corpse.
She walked in.
The water wasn't cold-it was memory.
Thick. Heavy. Familiar.
She waded through decades. Pulled herself toward the ticking body of the clock.
She held it.
It cracked open like an egg.
Inside was a day: October 12th. (Only five days from now.)
The day she breaks.
Nino clutched it to her chest, sobbing without sound.
As the waves whispered:
"You still have time."
Then again:
"But not much."
The dream closed like a book shutting itself.
The title of the book?
"Run 6."
.
.
.
.
.
Nino's eyes fluttered open-her breath hitched, like she'd surfaced too fast from somewhere deep.
"Miss Amanika," came the voice, muffled but firm, just beyond the door. "Your mother called. She's expecting you soon. Please prepare yourself."
It was Miyamoto-san, his voice carrying the weight of routine.
Nino stared at the ceiling for a moment.
The echo of ticking still lingered in her ears.
Her hands were empty.
No clock.
No water.
Just sheets. Warm. Real.
"...Alright," she murmured back, her voice hoarse, like it hadn't been used in days.
She sat up slowly.
October 7th.
Five days.
She was still on schedule.
.
.
.
.
.
The sound of sizzling oil, the sharp tap of a spatula against steel, and the soft bubbling of something sweet filled the air. The kitchen of Okushaki Café was already warm with the scent of caramel and browned butter, mingling with a hint of cinnamon.
Akeshi stood quietly in front of the stovetop, one hand rhythmically stirring a thick mixture while the other noted adjustments in a small notepad balanced on a clean counter. The snack he was working on was experimental -something halfway between a mochi bite and a cookie, soft on the inside, slightly crisp at the edges.
"Yo, Akeshi."
He glanced sideways.
Manager Kakeru leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a small grin playing at the corner of his lips. His voice carried the half-playful authority of someone who'd long since given up trying to micromanage Akeshi.
"It's 9 AM. Your shift's done. Go take a breathe."
Akeshi didn't answer immediately. He waited for the mixture to cool slightly before carefully plating the last batch. Then he wiped his hands and nodded.
"Alright."
Just then, a familiar, energetic voice bounced into the kitchen.
"Akeshi! Rina came!"
It was Ashley, apron tied slightly crooked, strands of hair escaping her bun like usual. A cracked egg in her hand.
Kakeru deadpanned.
Akeshi sighed.
But none of them said anything.
He turned, pulled a folded sheet of paper from the inside of his notebook, and handed it to her.
"Here. The recipe for that new snack." He paused before adding, "You can name it whatever you want. But don't forget—the original creator is me."
Ashley held the paper as if it were something sacred, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Noted, Chef Supreme."
He didn't smile, but the corner of his eyes softened.
Akeshi's next stop was a small side room just across from the café's lounge-a quiet study space converted for lessons.
There, waiting with a pencil case and a stack of well-worn books, was Rina, the girl he'd been tutoring for the past few months. Around eleven years old, with curious eyes and a thoughtful demeanor, she was more mature than most her age, yet still occasionally jotted notes in colored pens.
"Today-comparatives and superlatives," he said simply, sitting down beside her.
Rina groaned. "Again?"
"Again," he repeated.
As he went through examples on the whiteboard-small, smaller, smallest; happy, happier, happiest-his mind wandered briefly.
December.
He hadn't said the full date aloud, but it pulsed at the back of his mind.
December 23rd.
Almost six years. Since that day. Since the promise. Since everything began to change.
A soft chime came from his phone. He glanced down.
[Notification] - "The Gathering Confirmed. December 23th. Location: TBD."
He stared at the screen for a moment, unmoving. Then, a faint smile touched his lips-gentle, barely-there, almost private.
He tapped. Forwarded it to the group chat:
[The Default Class - New Name Still Under Construction]
Rina leaned forward, watching him with innocent suspicion.
"Why're you smiling like that?"
Akeshi closed the screen, slipped the phone into his pocket.
"...Something good happened."