The days after the dream passed slowly.
Not in a way that felt heavy—but in a way that made time noticeable. Each hour seemed to announce itself as it went by, as if reminding me that I was awake. That I was here.
Reality had weight again.
I returned to my routines without resistance. I woke when I was supposed to, ate when I remembered to, moved through familiar streets that required no thought. The world expected little from me, and I gave it exactly that.
In the quiet hours, I worked.
The small room behind the house smelled faintly of dust and metal—old things, abandoned things. Objects that had once been used daily, now forgotten. I preferred it that way. They didn't speak. They didn't rush me.
Today, it was an old clock.
Its glass face was cracked, the hands frozen at a time that no longer mattered. I dismantled it carefully, laying each piece down in order, as if the arrangement itself held meaning. My fingers moved without conscious thought, guided by habit more than intention.
As I worked, a strange feeling settled over me.
Familiarity.
Not with the clock—but with the act itself. The slow patience. The careful attention. The quiet trust that something broken could still be restored.
For a moment, I thought of her.
The way she stood without moving.
The way she waited.
My hands hesitated.
I shook the thought away and continued working.
That night, sleep came easily.
Too easily.