Rain and the Broken Clock — The Time That Stopped for Cherry - Black Telephone and Tomorrow's Rain

The rain kept falling, as if tracing the depths of memory. The night of Ameiro City painted over everything but the sound of rain. In the north-facing window of Room 403, Building B of the Minami Housing Complex, the light of a streetlamp blurred and wavered. Kuroki Kurenai simply stared at the old diary she had placed on the kotatsu. Black cover. Worn corners. A spine peeling away. The diary she had dug out from the back of the closet last night was filled with Kurenai's own handwriting. Words she had written but had no memory of writing. And on the second-to-last page, a single sentence—"This is the second time you are reading this." The same words as the DM on her phone. The sender was her own name—a name Kurenai had burned and erased three years ago. Kurenai couldn't look away from the diary. (What is this?) She traced the cover with her fingertip. A coldness like earth seeped through the paper, spreading slowly. As if this diary alone had been buried for a long time in the darkness at the end of an alley. The calendar on the wall was stopped at March, three years ago. The clock on the bookshelf was frozen at 7:01. And yet, last night, the second hand of that clock had moved. Tick, tick—as if breaking three years of silence. Kurenai exhaled. (I don't understand anything anymore.) On the kotatsu, a notebook, a pen, and an eraser lay scattered. The remnants of names Kurenai had written and erased—names belonging to no one. Eraser crumbs had gathered in the corners of the pages like gray sand. Kurenai opened the diary. Last night, she should have closed it at the page with that one sentence. Yet her fingers naturally opened to a new page. There, in Kurenai's handwriting, was written: "March 17. Monday. 2:47 AM. Open the diary." Kurenai looked at the clock. She tapped her phone screen. 2:47 AM. —Now. Kurenai's finger stopped on the diary. (The current time is written here.) A chill ran through the area around her heart. A coldness like someone's slender finger tracing the back of her neck. Kurenai looked at the words in the diary once more. "March 17. Monday. 2:47 AM. Open the diary." No mistake. It was her handwriting. The same left-leaning, idiosyncratic script. Even the shading of the fountain pen ink matched the way Kurenai wrote. But Kurenai had no memory of writing this. No—more fundamentally—she had just "opened" the diary. That very act was already written here. (I'm being preempted.) Kurenai slammed the diary shut. A dry snap fell into the room. Outside the window, the rain grew stronger. The sound of it—zaaa—traveled along the walls of the housing complex and flowed into the room. Kurenai stood up. She walked to the closet and pushed the diary deep inside. She restacked the cardboard boxes she had dug through yesterday. She covered them with a futon, pushed a garment case in front, and made them invisible. (This is fine.) (I just have to pretend I never saw it.) Kurenai closed the closet door. Silence returned to the room. Only the rain breathed steadily beyond the walls. Kurenai went back to the kotatsu and opened her notebook. She picked up the pen. (I'll write.) (Like always—write a name and erase it.) Kurenai put the pen to the paper. "Kuroki Kurenai." The moment she wrote it, her hand stopped. Her own name. The name she had erased three years ago. The name that had appeared in the sender field of last night's DM. (Why am I writing this name now?) Kurenai hurriedly grabbed the eraser. She erased. The paper frayed and fuzzed. Eraser crumbs tangled with the remnants of black letters and scattered. Even so, the name would not disappear. No—it had disappeared from the paper. And yet, the afterimage of the letters burned into the back of Kurenai's eyes and would not leave. "Kuroki Kurenai." (Stop it.) Kurenai closed the notebook. A deep breath. Something deep in her chest trembled faintly. (Calm down.) (It's just a diary. Just paper.) As if convincing herself, Kurenai tidied the kotatsu. She returned the notebook to the bookshelf and put the pen and eraser back in her pen case. She turned off the light. The room went dark. Beyond the north-facing window, a single streetlamp in the alley blurred whitish. Kurenai lay down on the bed. She pulled the blanket over her head. The sound of rain grew distant. Only her heartbeat pulsed slowly behind her ears. (Tomorrow, I'll have forgotten everything.) (Surely.) Kurenai closed her eyes. —Morning. Kurenai woke at 7:23. She confirmed the exact time on her phone screen. 7:23. (7:23.) Kurenai sat up. The collar of her pajamas was damp with night sweat. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity, clinging to her forehead. She got out of bed and headed to the kitchen. She turned the faucet and filled a glass with water. She took a sip. Cold. Holding the glass, Kurenai stopped in the middle of the room. (7:23.) Why did this time bother her? Kurenai looked at the closet. The door was closed. (Stop it.) Kurenai set the glass in the sink. She had no appetite for breakfast. Usually she toasted a single slice of bread. But this morning, her stomach wouldn't accept it. Kurenai sat at the kotatsu and picked up her phone. She opened the weather app. Ameiro City, today's precipitation probability: 90 percent. (Rain, huh.) She looked outside. It was rain, after all. A drizzle silently wet the leaves of the bushes planted in the housing complex's courtyard. Kurenai put down her phone. (Rain today.) (Rain yesterday.) (Rain tomorrow, surely.) Ameiro City's annual rainy days exceeded 180. It was a city where finding a day without rain was harder. Kurenai stood and headed to the washroom. She washed her face. She looked in the mirror. A tired-faced woman looked back from beyond the glass. Short black hair. Deep brown eyes. An ink stain on the middle finger of her left hand. (That's me.) Kurenai looked away from the mirror. She left the washroom and returned to the room. —That's when something moved in the corner of her vision. Kurenai stopped. On the bookshelf. The broken clock. 7:01. The hour and minute hands were stuck in the same place as last night. But—the second hand was moving. Tick. Same as last night. Only the second hand, slowly but certainly, was moving. Kurenai couldn't move, staring up at the clock. (Why?) (The battery should have died long ago.) This clock had been here before Kurenai came to this room. More precisely, it had already been stopped at 7:01 when Kurenai began shutting herself in. She had never changed the battery. Never even touched it. And yet, the second hand was moving. Tick. Tick. Tick. Kurenai couldn't take her eyes off the clock. The sound of the second hand threaded through the gaps in the rain, echoing faintly in the room. (Time is moving.) (My time.) (From the stopped 7:01.) Kurenai turned to look at the closet. Beyond the closed door was the diary. (Because I opened it?) (Because I found it, the clock started moving?) Kurenai shook her head. (No.) (It's a coincidence.) (It's just broken.) Kurenai sat at the kotatsu and picked up her phone. She wanted something to distract herself. She opened the messaging app. Yesterday's DM was still there. Sender: "Kuroki Kurenai." "This is the second time you are reading this." Kurenai closed the screen. Opened it. Closed it. Over and over. (I should delete it.) (I should just delete it.) Kurenai pressed the delete button on the DM. "Delete?" (Yes.) She tapped with her finger. The DM disappeared. The sender's name and the message vanished from the screen. Kurenai laid her phone face-down. (This is fine.) (Now it never happened.) Kurenai slumped over the kotatsu. The rain continued falling in the distance. Tuesday. The moment Kurenai woke in the morning, she noticed her body was moving on its own. More precisely, her body was moving "according to the diary's description." —She woke at 7:23 AM. —She drank a glass of water. —She didn't eat bread. —She checked the weather app on her phone. All of it was written in yesterday's diary. Kurenai sat at the kotatsu and stared at her hands. (I'm moving exactly as written.) (My day is written ahead of time.) Kurenai opened the closet. She moved the cardboard boxes, peeled back the futon, shifted the garment case. She took out the diary. She placed it on the kotatsu. She opened the page. There was a continuation of yesterday's entry. "March 18. Tuesday. 7:23 AM. Wake up. Drink water. Don't eat bread. Check weather forecast." Kurenai stared at the diary. (This morning's me.) (It's all written.) She turned the page. "8:05 AM. Open the closet. Take out the diary." Kurenai looked at the clock. Her phone screen. 8:05 AM. —Now. Kurenai's hand trembled. (I just opened the closet and took out the diary.) (That's already written.) Kurenai closed the diary. Her breathing grew shallow. (What is this?) (Future prediction? Or am I being written?) Kurenai placed the diary on the kotatsu and stepped back. Her back hit the bookshelf. The broken clock ticked above her head. Kurenai looked up. The second hand was still moving. Tick. Tick. Tick. (The clock, the diary—everything is wrong.) (Only around me, time is going strange.) Kurenai exhaled slowly. (Calm down.) (Think.) She sat back down at the kotatsu. She opened the diary again. "8:05 AM. Open the closet. Take out the diary." She read on. "8:12 AM. Read the diary." "8:19 AM. Try to write your name in the notebook, then stop." Kurenai looked up. (Try to write my name in the notebook, then stop?) (I have no intention of doing that.) Kurenai took the notebook from the bookshelf. She opened it on the kotatsu. She picked up the pen. (I won't write.) (Like I would.) Kurenai tried to put the pen to the paper. —Her hand trembled. Her fingertip gripped the pen with a movement separate from her own will. (Stop.) Kurenai held her right wrist with her left hand. The pen tip trembled above the paper. (Don't write.) (If I write, it'll match the diary.) Kurenai gritted her teeth. She put strength into her left hand gripping her right wrist. The trembling wouldn't stop. Her breathing grew shallow. Something deep in her chest tightened. (Painful.) Kurenai threw down the pen. It clattered to the floor. Kurenai covered her face with both hands. Rough breaths leaked through the gaps in her fingers. (When I stop writing, my breathing gets shallow.) (Writing is the only thing holding me together.) (And yet, now I'm afraid to write.) Kurenai raised her head. She looked at the diary. On the open page, Kurenai's handwriting lined up. "8:19 AM. Try to write your name in the notebook, then stop." (...I stopped.) (I just stopped writing my name.) (Exactly as the diary said.) Kurenai laughed. It was a self-mocking smile. The corner of her mouth twitched. (What the hell.) (In the end, I'm moving exactly as written.) (I tried to resist, but I couldn't.) Kurenai closed the diary. Wednesday. Kurenai had become afraid to open the diary. But she couldn't help opening it. In the morning, when she woke, she opened the diary first. Her day was already written. "7:30 AM. Wake up." "7:35 AM. Drink water." "7:41 AM. Open the diary." Everything happened exactly as written. Reading the diary, Kurenai felt like a doll tracing out her own day. (I was supposed to be the one writing.) (But now I'm the one being written.) Kurenai opened the notebook. She tried to write something. But her hand wouldn't move. More precisely, she was afraid to move it. (Whatever I write gets preempted by the diary.) (My will stops being mine.) Kurenai put down the pen. She looked outside. It was raining. Wednesday afternoon. Kurenai sat at the kotatsu, tracing the margins of the diary with her finger. (Is there any blank space not written?) (Where is the time I can freely use?) The diary's en

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Episode 2

Name: Rain and the Broken Clock — The Time That Stopped for Cherry
Author: Novelia

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