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DAY (MONTH) 3
-Suzume-
-ˋˏೱˎˊ-
Morning
Outside, dawn broke slowly, casting pale light across the rain-soaked landscape. The muted gray of the morning sky blended seamlessly with the rain, which fell in slow, deliberate drops, adhering to the rhythm of the outside world. Each droplet formed languid streaks across the barrier, dragging themselves downward as if resisting gravity itself. The soft, steady patter of rain on the dome was a constant, soothing melody, a stark contrast to the chaos of the world outside this isolated bubble. It was the kind of day that felt endless, where time seemed to stretch and blur at the edges.
Inside the barrier, time moved differently. Suzume knew this intimately.
The calendar hanging in the kitchen marked January, though she was keenly aware that of course it was still very much November. Only two days had truly passed, and yet, within these walls, weeks had unfurled in slow motion.
Her routines had become her anchor in this space-preparing tea, setting the table, folding blankets. Little things that reminded her she was still tethered to something. Still alive.
She stood by the window, wrapped in a heavy blanket that hung loosely over her shoulders, its warmth a welcome buffer against the damp chill that seeped into the house. Her fingers curled around the warmth of her tea cup, the steam rising in delicate spirals, fogging the glass in front of her. Her breath joined the mist, her soft exhale turning the cool window into a hazy reflection of herself. Outside their barrier, the world seemed almost dreamlike, the rain and fog blending into a single, indistinct blur.
It was almost hypnotic-the kind of quiet that made you feel like time itself had been put on pause. But Suzume knew better. Time, here, was her creation. And with each passing moment, she was more aware of its weight.
She sighed softly, the sound barely audible, her thoughts drifted away from the rain, as they often did, toward Satoru. He had settled into their strange, dreamlike routine, though not without resistance. At first, the confines of this world had grated on him, like a bird trapped in a gilded cage. The sharp edges of his frustration had been palpable, cutting through the otherwise serene atmosphere.
Over the past few weeks, those edges had softened. He still bristled at the slowness of everything, but Suzume could see that he was adapting. His cursed energy was returning, his strength rebuilding in fits and starts. It wasn't enough for him, of course. Satoru Gojo was not used to slow progress. But Suzume had noticed the small victories, the way his movements had regained a fraction of their former precision, the way his energy seemed to flow more naturally now. It was progress, even if he refused to admit it.
