The toaster popped, but the bread didn't jump. It just sat there, humming a low, electric frequency that made the silverware in the drawer vibrate.
"You're doing it again," Hinata said, leaning against the doorframe with a small, amused smile.
"I just can't remember if I ever wound it," I replied, though the lie felt thin. I wasn't looking at the toaster; I was staring at the old clock on the wall. It had been sitting in the hallway for three years, gathering dust and silence, its hands frozen at exactly four minutes past midnight. The clock wasn't just a piece of furniture; it was a marker of a boundary I couldn't quite recall crossing. I shifted my weight, feeling a strange, phantom heaviness in my limbs, as if my body were still recovering from a long, deep sleep it hadn't actually taken.
