The world froze at three seventeen in the afternoon. Of course, Mortenson Clara didn't know that at the time. She only understood later—more precisely, the next morning when she first saw a certain number, and in that moment, she couldn't breathe. The number's meaning, and how it overlapped with what she had done, made Clara unable to draw air into her lungs. But let's save that story for later. First, we must talk about the rain. --- The old city district of Chronos Metropolitan Area was called Sector 7. From the city center—that place where the 412-meter-tall Zero Hour Tower pierced the heavens and the azure light of temporal energy stained the night sky—approximately 14 kilometers to the southeast. A distance that took nearly twenty minutes even at full speed for the magnetic levitation train. There, old brick buildings leaned against each other in rows. Moss grew in the cracks of walls, and uneven stone pavement created puddles. The residents wore temporal conductors on their arms, but only outdated models that couldn't compare to the latest versions in the central district—barely adequate for food preservation. The temporal infrastructure had been consistently "postponed." While the average lifespan in Chronos Metropolitan Area was about 105 years, in Sector 7 it shrank to 88. That numerical difference told the entire story of this district's standing. The Mortenson residence at Haskell Alley, Number 12, lay even deeper within that old city district. A two-story building, ninety years old. The brick color had been washed by rain so many times it had become uniformly dark, and the white paint on the wooden window frames showed obvious signs of repeated repainting. A withering potted plant sat on the stone steps before the entrance. As Clara unlocked the door, she remembered her grandmother always watering that pot. She stopped remembering. Not in the mood for that yet. Mortenson Clara—sixteen years old, a second-year student at Verna Academy—shook her deep crimson ponytail and stepped through the dusty entrance. She wore the academy-designated uniform and had a leather temporal conductor armband wrapped around her left arm. Her slender, graceful frame looked girlish at first glance, but her amber eyes held a restlessness, constantly searching for something. Impulsive and curious—that was the outermost face of Clara as a person. But today was different. Her hand moving dust was unusually slow. Several weeks had passed since her grandmother Magda died. Clara had been getting through each day reasonably normally. Going to the academy, attending classes, joking around with her best friend Mira Rand. But the moment she entered the living room, she noticed the wall clock was still being regularly wound by Magda's hand, and Clara stopped moving just once. (It's still running.) Tick, tick. Dutifully, without stopping. It irritated her slightly. She didn't understand why she felt that way, but it irritated her nonetheless. Clara dropped her gaze to the floor and resumed her work. Old furniture remained in the living room. A heavy, dull wooden table that suited Magda's tastes, an upholstered sofa, a bookshelf. Clara began packing books into cardboard boxes, then mopped the floor and opened the windows to let in fresh air. Outside was overcast sky, and damp wind blew in from the direction of the Zelkus Mountains. Deep underground in those mountains lay temporal mineral veins, and the temporal particles extracted from there powered this city, Clara had learned in class. But the benefits barely reached Sector 7. When it rained, the stone pavement became slippery immediately, and public temporal lighting remained dim even at night. The rain began shortly after. It was light rain. The cloudy light coming through the window grew even duller, and the sound of water droplets falling from the eaves began to be heard at regular intervals. Clara tossed the rag into the bucket and turned her attention back to one corner of the living room floor. Wait, she thought. One floorboard was slightly raised. It didn't fit perfectly with the others—the edge was definitely lifted a few millimeters. Clara knelt down and poked the edge with her fingertip. It wobbled. The nails were clearly loose. (What is this?) Curiosity, in Clara's case, was something she couldn't control. Her hands moved before her mind could think. She hooked her fingers under the edge of the board and pulled it up. The old wood made a creaking sound of resistance. But she kept pulling anyway, and the board came free. There was a hollow space beneath it. A small depression, about fifteen centimeters square, covered with thin cloth. Clara gently lifted the cloth. Two things were inside. One was a sealed letter. On the envelope's surface, in handwriting she recognized, was written "To Clara." Her grandmother's writing. Clara's gaze stopped there for a moment—there was a sensation like something catching in her throat, and she reached toward the letter. But. The other object caught her eye. A pocket watch. Old. Really old. The metal surface was clouded, and something like a pattern was engraved on it, but rust and grime obscured the details. A chain was attached, coiled on the cloth. Clara pushed the letter to the back of her mind—carelessly shoving it into her pocket—and reached for the pocket watch. It was cold. Metal being cold was normal. But this wasn't that ordinary kind of cold. From her fingertips to her palm, and then up the inside of her arm, a chill seemed to crawl in an instant. Clara couldn't help but frown. The next moment. The world stopped. The sound vanished. The rain sound from the eaves, the ticking of the clock, everything except her own breathing—all sound ceased. Clara slowly looked up. Outside the window, the raindrops—weren't falling. They hung in the air, maintaining their exact form. Like glass beads, each droplet perfectly spherical, completely still. Clara stood and approached the window. Her body gasped before her mind could catch up. She extended her finger outside and touched one of the raindrops. Cold, but unmoving. It changed shape slightly with a soft bounce, but didn't burst or fall. "...What?" Clara said. Her voice alone echoed in this frozen world. Looking toward the alley, there was an old man by the wall on the far side. A cigarette in his mouth, white smoke being exhaled thinly—that smoke was frozen in mid-air. It had begun spreading in a thin ribbon shape and had become a sculpture. The old man himself remained completely motionless, suspended in mid-step with one foot slightly raised. A short distance away, a bird hung in the air with its wings spread wide. Clara opened the door and stepped into the alley. Silence. Haskell Alley, which was never particularly lively, had become even more completely silent. The low vibration sound of the magnetic levitation train that should normally reach from the direction of the metropolitan center was gone. Clara stood in the middle of the road and slowly turned around once. Everything was stopped. The entire world was holding its breath. Strange emotions mixed in her chest. She thought it was amazing. Really amazing. Was this temporal manipulation? But no. Temporal manipulation—proper temporal manipulation using a conductor—couldn't achieve this kind of complete, wide-range stoppage without a national license. Especially not just by holding a watch. This wasn't known technology. The armband-type conductor on Clara's left arm was slightly warm. It was reacting to something. But at the same time. Clara noticed she could hear her own heartbeat. The only thing moving in the world. In this complete stillness, only her heart was beating regularly. That lonely sound reached her ears with strange clarity. With everything around her frozen, the sensation of being the only one alive—it was exhilarating and, at the same time, just a little bit frightening. (I want it to go back.) She thought that somehow. The intuition that if she let go of the watch, things would return to normal. Clara opened her palm. The watch was there. After hesitating for just one second, Clara placed the watch on the ground. The world began to move again. Raindrops fell. The old man's cigarette smoke flowed. The bird flapped its wings and flew away. The world's sounds returned all at once, and Clara instinctively braced herself. She felt relief. Strength drained from her shoulders, and Clara nearly sank to her knees. In that moment, she saw it. At the edge of her vision, in the dark space between the alley walls—a shadow. Or rather, something in the shape of a shadow. The darkness was different from the wall's shadow. Too thin to have substance, but too heavy to dismiss as mere imagination. It had a vague outline, but vanished the moment she looked directly at it. Clara narrowed her eyes. She approached the wall and checked that spot. Nothing. Just old brick wall. But a creeping discomfort spread from the back of her neck down her spine and wouldn't fade. (Was that... just my imagination?) She tried to convince herself it was. But her body knew better. Right next to that wall, Clara found something else. Something that had caught her eye while time was frozen, which she now remembered with a "come to think of it" feeling. At a low point on the wall, an engraved emblem was carved. It was shaped like gears. Intricately interlocking gears contained within a circular frame. Carved directly into the brick, it was old. Very old. Clara traced it with her finger. The old city district's walls had various graffiti and decorations, so it might not be anything special. But something caught on her mind. (I feel like I've seen this somewhere...) She couldn't remember. She thought she'd seen a similar illustration in Verna Academy's temporal technology history textbook. A secret society that supposedly existed in the dawn of temporal manipulation—centuries before conductors became widespread. The emblem was called... Horologion. An ancient word meaning "those who manipulate time." She'd read it as mere historical notation, but now, in this moment, it came back with a strange, real weight. Clara shook her head and returned inside the residence. She picked up the watch, suddenly didn't want to hold it, but put it in her pocket anyway. The right deep pocket. In the left, her grandmother's letter rested. She didn't think about that letter at that moment. --- The hallway of Verna Academy the next morning became a place where the world stopped for Clara in a different sense. Located along Cresta Street in Sector 3, the academy was a secondary education institution with 1,200 students. It was known for its curriculum incorporating basic temporal technology education, and top-performing students could receive recommendations to Chronos Engineering Academy. Clara's grades were above average, and she particularly enjoyed the basic temporal technology theory classes. She understood the theory. She found the actual manipulation tedious, though. Before morning homeroom in the hallway, Clara's classmate Ed approached her. "Do you know about Mira Rand?" Ed asked. Clara stopped walking. "What about her?" "She's been unconscious since yesterday evening. Apparently she collapsed suddenly, and now she's admitted to the academy's infirmary," Ed said. A cold stone fell into her stomach. Mira was Clara's best friend. They'd been in the same class since their first year, and she'd been by Clara's side ever since. That girl had collapsed. "...Collapsed? Mira?" "They're saying the cause is unknown, but—" Ed began. Clara was already running. As she sprinted down the hallway, she calculated in her mind. Mira collapsed in the evening yesterday. She'd picked up the watch sometime after three in the afternoon. But "evening" was different. It had to be different. The infirmary was in the north wing of the main building. There was a terminal at the receptio