The next morning, Yuki noticed something strange.
The ocean had receded.
Not by a few steps. By miles.
Where waves once kissed the shore, now there was only damp sand, scattered shells, and the distant glimmer of water far, far away. And at the center of that emptiness stood something impossible:
A clock tower. Rusted. Tilted. Half-buried in the seabed.
Ami stood beside him, unusually quiet.
"You see it too?" Yuki asked.
"I hoped you wouldn't," she murmured.
They walked across the exposed ocean floor, silence stretching between them like the space between stars. The clock tower loomed closer with every step, its hands frozen at 7:14.
Yuki brushed away the moss clinging to its base. There were words beneath it, engraved in worn, slanted letters:
"Time ends when memory does."
He looked back at Ami. "What is this place really?"
She hugged herself, eyes shadowed. "A summer you almost lived."
"What does that mean?"
A gust of wind passed between them.
Ami looked at him like she was remembering something painful. "Do you want the truth now, or later?"
Yuki shook his head. "Now."
She looked down at the notebook in her hands.
"You're asleep," she said.
His stomach dropped.
"Like a coma?"
She nodded.
He stared at her, the ocean floor spinning. "And you?"
"I'm… a piece of you. Of your longing. Of someone you couldn't save."
Yuki backed away. "No. No, you're real. This is real."
Ami stepped closer. "It is real. It's just not forever."
The wind howled, and the clock's rusted bell rang once—low and aching.
Yuki wanted to scream. Instead, he whispered, "If I wake up, will I forget you?"
Ami didn't answer.
But her silence said everything.
---
Later, back at the cottage, Yuki sat alone. Ami had gone quiet after they returned. The town was even emptier now. Shops closed. Lights dim. The wind, still.
He picked up the notebook.
Ten items were marked now.
Only two left.
11. Laugh until I cry.
12. Wake up.
He wasn't sure which one terrified him more.