Life was getting chaotic.
Between my café, my not-a-school, laundry requests, fate-based Uno tournaments, and the sacred cat whisperings, I couldn't keep track of anything.
Half the time I didn't know if it was Tuesday or Pancake Day or the Festival of Unexplained Applause (still don't know who started that one).
So I had an idea.
A simple, modern, perfectly innocent idea:
Let's make a calendar.
I went back to Earth, printed a dozen monthly planners, and decorated them with flowers, suns, and cartoon cats to look whimsical instead of... aggressively Earthly.
I used Atheria's seasonal cycles—Solfire (summer), Frostmelt (winter), Greengrow (spring), Leafrest (autumn)—and filled in little icons for events like:
Cake Day (every 5th of Solfire)
Soap-Making Class
Dice Duel Evening
Mandatory Nap Afternoon
Laundry Day
Then I pinned the calendar to the café wall with a cute sign:
The Month of Soft Routines! For Peaceful Minds and Predictable Tea Breaks.
I thought people would love it.
And they did.
Too much.
Lila was the first to panic.
She burst into the café, holding the calendar like it was a royal decree.
"Lady Rika! Is it true? On the 22nd, you have foretold... a Storm of Soaking Fabric?"
"What? No, that's just Laundry Day."
"But it's written in red!"
"Because it's important?"
She gasped and whispered, "It must be a critical omen."
By lunchtime, someone asked if the "laundry day" symbol meant rain would fall from the heavens in judgment.
By evening, five people brought offerings of soap to "appease the goddess of wet fate."
By the next morning, my calendar was being copied by hand and distributed like holy scripture.
Marius came in, holding a scroll.
"I noticed you marked the 15th with a cupcake and three stars. Is that the day of divine indulgence?"
"No, that's my cat's birthday."
He nodded solemnly. "Understood. We shall prepare an offering."
And they did.
Kuro received tuna, a silk collar, and a song performed by three children with tambourines.
I should've stopped it.
But the calendar worked. People stopped asking me what day it was. Events ran on time. The delivery team coordinated without chasing pigeons. No one missed Nap Afternoon.
So when a traveling priest asked if I'd "taken stewardship of the River of Time," I just smiled awkwardly and said, "Uh… I'm penciling it in."
Now, every month, I release a new "Rika Time Tablet" (still just a calendar with emojis and snack reminders). It includes fun facts, recommended tea blends, and gentle affirmations like "You are not behind. You are simply pre-soaked for greatness."
Villagers frame them. Kids draw stars on them. Someone stitched one into a blanket.
I'm not just a soft sorceress anymore.
I am now the Chronomage of Comfort.
Do I control time?
Technically yes. With my powers.
But officially?
Only on paper.