Rain and the Broken Clock — The Time That Stopped for Cherry - The night I gave her a name, the woman opens her mouth

The rain continued to fall softly, as if tracing the outline of the night that had been given a name. Late Sunday night. Minami Danchi Building B, Room 403. Outside the north-facing window, the drizzle of Ameiro City blurred the streetlights into a hazy glow. Kuroki Kurenai stared at the notebook placed on the kotatsu. On the open page, written in Kurenai's handwriting, was "You." Over and over, as if overwriting it again and again. Instead of a name, only the second person. (I will call this person.) (I will give her a name.) Kurenai looked at the woman sitting beside her. The Na wo Kuu Onna. Her black hair, reaching to her waist, should have been wet from the rain, yet it appeared dry. Her grayish-brown eyes, like the trunk of an elm tree, gazed fixedly at the words in Kurenai's notebook. Her white fingertips rested on the edge of the kotatsu. A presence without warmth, chilling. The woman had no words. She made no sound. But her emotions came through like the rise and fall of the rain—sometimes strong, sometimes weak. Now, the woman was waiting for Kurenai's words. Kurenai gently pushed the notebook toward the woman. "I'll call your name." The woman's grayish-brown eyes wavered slightly. "I'll give you a name." Kurenai's voice was flat. A quiet voice, with emotion stopped still. (I know this is the most dangerous gamble.) (Giving a name means fattening the other and starving yourself.) (Even so.) (I want to give you a name.) Kurenai took the woman's hand. A cold hand. Fingertips cold as ice touched Kurenai's palm. But. Kurenai was not having her body heat stolen. From her fingertips, a warmth kindled. A sensation like a small flame being born deep in her chest. Cold, yet hot. This contradiction made Kurenai's breathing just slightly deeper. The woman did not squeeze back. She simply stared intently at Kurenai's face. Deep within those grayish-brown eyes, something was moving slowly. (This person wants to eat my name.) (But at the same time, she craves my name.) (She's wavering at the boundary between salvation and prey.) Kurenai gently gripped the woman's fingers. The woman did not pull away. —In that instant. A sound came from the corner of the room. Click. Kurenai raised her head. The corner of the room. On top of the bookshelf. The broken clock. That clock, still pointing to 7:01. It chimed once. Click. Kurenai stared at the clock. (The clock rang.) (The clock that stopped at 7:01.) (It made a sound again.) The hands still pointed to 7:01. But the second hand was trembling faintly. Kurenai looked at the woman's face. The woman's grayish-brown eyes stared straight back at Kurenai. (Something has begun just now.) (Both I and you know it.) Still holding the woman's hand, Kurenai closed her eyes. The sound of rain filled the room. The laughter from the alley could not be heard tonight. A quiet, quiet night, when a name was given. —The next morning. Monday morning. For the first time in three years, Kurenai was walking down the morning corridor. Minami Danchi Building B, fourth floor. The rain had stopped during the night. The concrete corridor was still damp. The air was cold and chilly. (I went outside.) (On my own.) Kurenai closed the door to Room 403 and stepped out into the corridor. The soles of her sneakers made small sounds on the wet concrete. —From the far end of the corridor, footsteps approached. Kurenai stopped. The door to Room 402 opened. Out came a small woman with a bright brown short bob swaying. Round dark-brown eyes. A shopping bag in one hand. Takahashi Yuuko. The neighbor, a part-time worker. Forty-five years old. She had lived next door ever since Kurenai moved into this housing complex. Yuuko saw Kurenai and paused for just a moment. And then. "Good morning." It was a natural voice. Nothing special, no sign of prying. Just as always, as if it were the most natural thing. (Good morning, huh.) Kurenai rolled the words around in the back of her throat. The first morning greeting in three years. "...Good morning." Her voice was hoarse. But it came out, certainly. Yuuko gave a small nod and walked toward the elevator. Kurenai watched Yuuko's back as she left. (I am still not completely cut off from this world.) (Such a strange relief.) Deep in her chest, something loosened just a little. Kurenai returned to her room. —On the kotatsu, a diary lay placed. Black cover. Worn corners. A spine peeling away. Kurenai picked up the diary. She opened it. —It was blank. The entries that until yesterday had been written in advance, chronicling Kurenai's day, were gone. "You will lose my name tomorrow." Those words too, gone. "Those who give a name shall lose their name." Those red words too, gone. The pages were simply blank. (They disappeared.) (All the entries written in advance.) Kurenai flipped through the pages again and again. Blank. Blank. Blank. (By giving a name, my daily life is beginning to return.) (Such an illusion.) Kurenai closed the diary. Deep in her chest, a small hope was budding. (Perhaps.) (Perhaps I can return to an ordinary daily life, just like this.) Kurenai looked at the clock in the corner of the room. 7:01. The hands were still stopped. But for the first time, Kurenai accepted that stillness. (It doesn't have to move.) (For now, let it stay like this.) Kurenai sat at the kotatsu and opened her notebook. Blank page. She held the pen. (What should I write?) (About today.) (About the morning greeting.) The pen tip touched the paper. "Good morning." Kurenai stared at the words. (Just a greeting.) (But for me, the first in three years.) Kurenai wrote small letters at the edge of the notebook: "Yuuko-san." (This person too, was part of my daily life.) (She was.) (Maybe she can be again.) Kurenai closed the notebook. The rain had stopped. —Late Monday night. Kurenai was not sleeping. Sitting at the kotatsu, opening the notebook, writing and erasing, writing and erasing. (I can't sleep.) (Deep in my chest, something is stirring restlessly.) (Something is approaching.) Kurenai raised her head. The air in the room had changed. A chilling presence, like a quiet afternoon on a rainy day. —The woman was standing there. Without a sound. At some point. At the entrance of the room. Black hair reaching her waist. Grayish-brown eyes. White fingertips. The Na wo Kuu Onna. The woman was staring at Kurenai. The color of her eyes was slightly different from usual. (Something happened.) Kurenai stood up. The woman slowly approached Kurenai. And then. The woman's hand grasped Kurenai's hand. Cold fingertips. But different from last night. (She's pulling.) (Pulling me somewhere.) The woman pulled Kurenai's hand. The first clear guidance. Kurenai did not resist. (If this person is taking me somewhere.) (Then I'll go.) Kurenai put on her sneakers. The woman went out the door without a sound. Kurenai followed. —The north side of Minami Danchi. The L-shaped alley. A narrow passage one street in from the main road. Normally it looked like a dead end. But tonight was different. Standing at the alley entrance, a passage continuing deeper emerged faintly in the mist. (It's open.) (Tonight too, it continues deeper.) The woman walked into the depths of the alley without hesitation. Still holding the woman's hand, Kurenai followed. The alley walls were moss-covered and dark. The rain had begun to fall again. The drizzle wet Kurenai's hair. —On the wall, there were marks. Countless old teeth marks. Bite marks carved deep into the concrete, as if gouged out. Kurenai nearly stopped. (That thing is deeper in.) (The Yaseta Nanika.) The woman's hand gripped Kurenai's hand tighter. (As if to say, it's all right.) (But this person is afraid of that thing too.) Kurenai looked at the woman's profile. Her grayish-brown eyes stared straight into the depths of the alley. (Even so, she goes.) (She takes me with her.) Kurenai exhaled. Her white breath dissolved into the mist. —The deepest part of the alley. There, a swarm was writhing. A nameless swarm. The remnants of countless names that the people of this city had once erased. They had no form. But they were certainly there. The damp darkness was breathing. A stale smell. The smell of old blood. The smell of rain-soaked earth. And. Laughter. A low, damp laughter resembling the sound of rain. Shhh. The swarm was watching Kurenai. Countless nameless gazes. Kurenai gripped the woman's hand tightly. —The laughter approached. From within the swarm, a single shadow came slowly toward them. Gray hair falling out in patches. Scalp visible. Eyes like dark holes that reflected no light. Teeth—more than a human mouth should hold—peeked out each time it laughed. The Yaseta Nanika. The uncalled one that infested the alley. A nameless existence. It had dwelled in this alley for three hundred years. The only being that knew where the names Kurenai had erased had gone. The representative of the alley, feared even by the vampire woman. The Yaseta Nanika stood before Kurenai. Its dark-hole eyes slowly licked Kurenai up and down, as if savoring her. "Yo, you." A voice with a beast-like familiarity, close to a Kansai dialect. "I hear you gave away a name?" Kurenai did not answer. The Yaseta Nanika laughed. A laughter like the sound of rain. Shhh. "You don't get what you've done, do ya." The Yaseta Nanika glanced at the woman. "You gave that woman a name." "A name, see, is made of memories." Kurenai caught her breath. (Made of memories.) (Names are.) The Yaseta Nanika brought its face close to Kurenai. Its stale breath hit Kurenai's cheek. "You gave that woman a name. That's why the memories inside you are bein' shaved away." "Your memories are fattenin' that woman." Kurenai's body trembled. (My memories.) (Are fattening this person.) The Yaseta Nanika kept laughing. "Three years ago, you erased another version of yourself." "This time, your own memories and name are bein' devoured." Kurenai's fingertips grew cold. Cold from the core of her body. (What I gave this person.) (Is not love.) (It's my memories, sold off piece by piece.) (That's what it was.) Still holding the woman's hand, Kurenai could no longer move. The woman squeezed Kurenai's hand back. Cold fingertips. But that coldness was frightening now. —The swarm stirred. Countless nameless voices laughed around Kurenai. Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Laughter like the sound of rain filled the alley. "You think you did a good thing, don't ya." "But see, that's prey." "Prey made from your memories." Kurenai's knees began to shake. (Prey.) (The name I gave was prey.) (Prey made from my memories.) The Yaseta Nanika brought its mouth close to Kurenai's ear. "You won't be called by your name anymore, will ya." Kurenai's throat made a thin, whistling sound. —The deepest part of the alley. The woman released Kurenai's hand. And then. The woman stood before Kurenai. Her grayish-brown eyes stared straight at Kurenai. (This person is trying to do something.) The woman opened her mouth. For the first time. In human words. "Your name is already gone." Kurenai's world stopped. (A voice.) (This person spoke.) (In human words.) The woman's voice resembled the sound of rain. A low, quiet, wet voice. "Your name is already gone." The woman said it again. Kurenai reflexively tried to call her own name. (I am.) (I am Kuroki, Kurenai.) (Kuroki Kurenai.) (Kuroki Kurenai, Kuroki Kurenai, Kuroki Kurenai——) Her throat would not move. No voice came out. The sound had vanished. (Huh?) (Huh, huh, huh?) Kurenai pressed a hand to her throat. Her vocal cords did not vibrate. Only breath leaked out. (My name.) (My name.) (I can't call it.) (It's gone.) Kurenai's vision wavered. —The diary. Kurenai opened the diary she had brought. Her hands

日本語

What is Novelia? →

Episode 6

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

What is Novelia?

Novelia is an AI-powered platform to read original light novels and fan fiction, create your own in just a few taps, and chat with the characters. New, illustrated episodes arrive daily — free to start.

Learn more about Novelia →New sign-ups get 5,000pt