Volume One · Chapter Fifteen · Week Seven · Shrinking Time

On the second day of the seventh week, Lane woke colder than before. Not the station's temperature—his own hands. He opened his eyes and looked at his left hand. The skin over his knuckles was drier than before. The lines on his fingertips were shallower, like moisture was leaving at a rate faster than weather could explain. When he sat up, his left shoulder joint made a sound—not loud, but dry, like the fine crack before wood splits.

He stood, walked to the vent, and held his hand in the airflow. Air pushed down from the pipe—no warmth in it—but his fingertips lingered for about ten seconds, registering a faint discomfort. Something beneath the skin, changing slowly, not easily felt. Not pain—something lighter. Like a thin wire being slowly tightened.

He pulled his hand back. The gray line on his left wrist had grown about half a finger-width since yesterday. Not darker. But its edges were clearer. He looked at it for about three seconds, then pulled his sleeve down, covering it, not touching it.

At noon, he was clearing dust from the ventilation shaft. A fine layer of rust powder had formed on the walls—when his fingers brushed it, it fell away in a small reddish cloud. He crouched in the middle of the shaft, scraping at the surface with a piece of metal, when he stopped. His heart was beating faster than usual. Not violently—about ten beats above normal, barely noticeable, but he could count it. He put the metal piece down, sat against the pipe wall, and waited for his heart to settle. He didn't time it.

Near dusk, he stood outside the arch, facing the street. The lock was open. The gate was ajar. He stood on the inside of the iron bars, shoulder against the frame, and pushed his left sleeve up—exposing the top of the gray line. It ran from his wrist to mid-forearm now, about the thickness of a matchstick. Its edges were more defined than before, like someone had traced its boundary with a very fine pencil. He stared at it for a moment, pulled the sleeve down, said nothing.

She came when the sky was nearly dark. The moon hadn't fully risen yet—the sky above the street had gone from gray-blue to deep gray. She stopped one step outside the arch, then came in, setting her cloth bag on the counter. She looked at him, then stood still.

"You're paler today."

He didn't answer. "What did you bring?"

"The pickled vegetables you didn't finish," she said. "And something else." She pulled a small cloth pouch from her coat pocket, handed it to him. "The tooth from the other day. I smoothed the edges. Not perfectly, but better than before."

He took it, opened the mouth. The hound's tooth sat inside—its edges smoother than before, like it had been rubbed against something. Near the root, a shallow depression, as if worn by fingers holding it for a long time. "You smoothed it?"

"With a stone. On the windowsill."

He put the tooth back in the pouch, set it on the counter, then turned to look at her. His head turned slower than usual, like he was checking whether something inside him was still working right.

"Something's off," she said. "Your left shoulder. Lower than before. And your left hand was slower."

"You didn't notice my left hand."

"I noticed your left hand. You took the pouch with your right. Your left hand was at your side."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "When I woke up this morning, my transformation time was three minutes shorter."

She stood by the counter, unmoving. "When did it start?"

"This morning."

"Will it keep getting shorter?"

"Klaus said it would."

She was silent for a moment. "So how much time do you have left?"

He looked at her eyes. "Enough to sit across from you and eat a bowl of noodles."

She stood there, like the words had pinned her in place. She looked at him, didn't move. Two seconds. Then she lowered her head, folded the pouch's mouth, set it on the counter. "Then cook faster today."

She turned toward the fireplace, took two steps, then stopped. "Lane." The first time he'd heard her say his name. Not "you." Not that distant, uncertain address. Two full syllables, clear landing, vibrating in the air.

"Yeah."

"When you don't have enough time left—will you tell me?"

Wind came through the arch from outside, lifting a small patch of dust from the counter. The dust turned in the air, then settled. He sat where he was, looking at her. "Yes."

She didn't ask again. She crouched, set the pot on its hook, poured water, broke flatbread into it, pulled a small packet of dried spices from her pocket, tore it open, sprinkled it in. She did all this without looking up, her movements faster than usual—like an invisible thread was pulling her forward. But he noticed: when she sprinkled the spices, she wasn't rushed. She'd caught them in her palm first, then let them fall through her fingers, one pinch at a time.

He sat against the wall behind her, watching her crouched by the fire. Light from the flames spread thin across her shoulders. Her shoulder blades shifted with each movement—like a layer of fabric folding slowly over bone. He didn't watch for long. He looked away, gaze landing on the vent. The air was still flowing, wind still pushing down through the pipe—but his hands were colder than he remembered them ever being.

She stood, handed him the bowl. The rim was hot. His fingertips met it—felt the heat. He didn't pull away. He held it, lifted it, drank. Hot.

She sat across from him, bowl in hand, didn't drink. Steam rose from the rim, spread in the air, forming a brief haze in front of her face, blocking her view for a moment.

She watched him drink and said, "You won't only have enough time to drink soup."

He looked up at her.

"Yes," he said. "Enough to finish one bowl."

She lifted her own bowl, took a sip, set it down. Watched the steam disappearing fast. His left hand rested on his knee—the edge of the gray line showing from beneath his cuff, a pale gray curve in the firelight. She saw it. Didn't speak. Just sat across from him, bowl in hand, heat fading, light narrowing. The whole space filled with only the smell of soup and the faint crackle of burning wood, and the wind, still moving. His left hand tightened slightly on his knee—like checking whether certain things were still there.

She set her bowl down. "Tomorrow," she said, "I'll come earlier."