By the fifth day, the road had begun to blur.
Not just from the cold, or the endless walking—but from something deeper. Something wrong.
I didn't notice it at first. The birdsong repeating itself. The old man at the crossroads giving us the same answer in the same words, twice. The way Rin's shadow paused a second after she did.
Then I looked down at the dirt path and realized we'd passed the same broken stone three times.
"We're not lost," I said aloud, mostly to convince myself.
"No,"
Rin said, eyes scanning the treelike. "But we're not moving forward either."
She knelt and touched the edge of the path. Her hand trembled slightly.
"This place… it's thinning."
"Thinning?"
She didn't look up. "The boundary between now and not-now."
I crouched beside her. "Is this the shikigami's doing?"
"Maybe, Or maybe we're just walking where the thread is weak."
I froze.
"The thread?"
She glanced at me, startled—like the word had surprised even her.
Then she stood. "Let's keep going."
***
The next village was quiet. Too quiet.
The streets were swept clean. Doors shut. No scent of firewood in the air. No children. No dogs barking in the distance.
We passed a small shrine near the riverbank. The offering bowl was full. Fresh incense. Someone had been here recently.
But not now.
We crossed the bridge.And then it happened.
Jut for a second.
The sky flickered.
The clouds stuttered—not in motion, but in presence. Like a breath held too long.
Rin stumbled. I caught her elbow.
She didn't speak. Just stared ahead, eyes wide.
"What did you see?" I asked.
She blinked once. Twice.
Then whispered, "That wasn't my memory. But it still felt like mine."
***
We didn't make it to the next town.
No matter how far we walked, the same road curved back into itself. First subtly—trees that looked familiar. Then boldly—a twisted signpost we passed twice. A crooked willow that stood in three directions at once.
Rin's breathing grew tight. Her grip tightened on the charm in her hand, but there was nothing to fight.
We turned around.
The road did too.
"I think we're caught," she said, voice trembling.
I stopped walking.
And just like that—everything stopped with me.
The wind. The clouds. The sound of leaves underfoot.
Only Rin moved—barely. Her figure trembling as if held in place by a fraying thread.
Then I heard it—ticking. Slow. Subtle. Coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
A sound I had never heard out loud, but had always known.
I reached inside.
Time buckled beneath my thoughts.I didn't rewind. I didn't freeze.
Instead, I stepped between.
The look lay around us like a coiled ribbon—folded, repeated, frayed at its center. At the heart of it, a gleaming thread stretched unnaturally through the air. It pulsed faintly—sickly white, like spun silk soaked in moonlight.
Rin's voice echoed faintly, "Cut it. It's not supposed to be here."
I raised my hand.
The sword felt lighter than it should've. Maybe it was memory. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe both.
I brought it down.
The thread snapped soundlessly.
And the world rushed back in.
***
We awoke near the base of a hillside, cold and shaken. Our packs beside us. The road stretched ahead like it hadn't before.
Rin rubbed her arms. "What happened?"
"I think we stepped through a fault."
She looked at me. "Or someone laid a trap."
I didn't answer.
We both looked at the sky.
The clouds were normal again.
But I could still hear the ticking. Fainter now. Still there.
***
That night, we stayed in an abandoned farmhouse just off the path.
Rin sat by the window, fingers brushing the old wooden frame.
"I think," she said, "I've known you before."
I turned toward her. "In the dream?"
"In all of them."She looked at me. "And each time, I think I've lost you."
I didn't know what to say.
So I reached for her hand.
She didn't pull away.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of river water and smoke.
And somewhere in the dark, I could hear the ticking of a clock that wasn't there.