Yeah, hi.

Yukimi

"You really need to get back to work."

Yukimi pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back into his swivel chair. It was a nice swivel chair, he noted idly, twirling the phone cords between his thumb and pointer finger. "I know."

"No, really, when was the last time you wrote something?"

"I dunno."

"My point. You should move your lazy butt, man."

"I know."

The speaker on the other line sighed. "You're playing with that chair again, aren't you? Honestly, Yukimi, you have the attention span of an eight-year-old."

"Mmhmm…" Yukimi said, spinning on his swivel chair.

"And you're not even paying attention to me."

"Nope."

Another sigh. "I can tell. I'll shut up now." A pause. "Oh, and FYI, the boss wants something out by the end of this year."

It took a few seconds for the words to register in Yukimi's brain. "What."

"Boss said—"

"I heard you first time. Does that mean—"

"Yeah. You got a deadline, man."

Yukimi cursed and looked around for something to bang his head against. Hard.

"Such is the life of a writer…" the voice on the other line said dramatically.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut. Up."

"Shutting up." The phone was silent.

Two days later Microsoft Word was open, sitting on Yukimi's laptop screen. Blank. White. Empty.

Yukimi growled.

It was mocking him. Well, he reasoned, he'd show it. He'd write something so awesome Word would stop looking so darn blank.

He flexed his typing fingers and rested them on the keys.

Fifteen minutes later, Yukimi had written a traumatic "story" about a rainbow pony that had fallen off a cliff and drowned in a river, its spirit haunting other rainbow ponies even now.

Yukimi's fingers twitched angrily. He let his head fall down to the keyboard in despair. Lifting it again, he saw that the page was blank—his head, apparently, had been resting on the backspace key.

Well. Good riddance to that thrice-cursed rainbow pony.

The calendar that sat beside his laptop innocently was a constant reminder that time was ticking away. It was August the eighteenth. He had received the deadline on the sixteenth. He had about four months left. Four months to come up with a book worth reading for his readers.

A year ago, he would've been able to come up with a mind-blowing book in four months. Now it was a struggle to even get started.

It was because… ever since Yoite—

No. He refused to think of the bad memories. Think of the good stuff, his counselor had told him. Only the good memories. They would help Yoite live on in his heart.

Yukimi tentatively lowered the mental barriers he had placed in his mind, daring to spread his thoughts and remember Yoite. It was the first time, he realized, he had let himself think about Yoite on purpose. He let his thoughts drift, remembering the night they met—

A little boy hiding behind the dumpster. Dressed all in black. Shaggy haircut. Eyes too big for his face. Stick-thin and frail.

"Hey. Where are your parents?"

"Don't have any." The boy's voice whispered like strands of hair carried by the wind.

Yukimi took a long drag of his cigarette. "Same here. What's your name?"

"I don't know," the boy said.

A puff of smoke coiled around Yukimi's face. "Yoite, then."

"W-what?"

Yukimi nodded to himself. Yoite, like the night wind, certainly fit this boy. "We'll call you Yoite."

"We?" The child asked in surprise.

"Yeah. Can't have little brats wandering around on their own, can we?"

"You mean—" the boy—Yoite—asked, hardly daring to hope.

"My house's just around the corner."

Yoite had grown, then, into the son Yukimi never had. The boy wasn't the most talkative, nor was Yukimi the most affectionate, but they understood each other on a level no one else ever had. They both knew how it felt to be alone, orphaned, in the middle of the world. Yukimi had smoked before the fateful night; Yoite made him stop soon after. Their relationship was defined not as words and hugs, but as a cup of hot lemonade after a long day at work and extra blankets on cold nights.

Yoite filled a space in Yukimi's heart, one he never knew existed.

And then the hole was reopened, bigger than before, when—

"The diagnosis came back just now. He has cancer… and it's terminal."

The world spun gray and black before Yukimi's eyes. "What?"

"We simply can't cure it at the moment. In a few years, five or ten, we might have a medical breakthrough, but right now it's—"

"Terminal?" Yukimi rasped.

"Yes," the doctor said, and hesitated. He answered the question burning in the other man's eyes, one he couldn't bring himself to ask. "Yoite has two months left. Best thing… best thing to do is make sure he's happy."

Two months.

"…I'm sorry."

Yukimi stopped writing after that.

He was so young. He had a whole life ahead of him. So young… Yukimi squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stop thinking. The wound was still fresh, raw, and bleeding. He doubted it would ever stop.

He slammed his laptop shut. He needed fresh air.

Miharu

It was ironic, Miharu mused, as he wandered through the old-fashioned clock shop. All these clocks able to tick away forever, just as long as their batteries were replaced, while he… he only had a month left.

He hummed under his breath, unafraid of disturbing others since he was the only one in the shop. The owner was in his workshop, tinkering about and fixing his clocks.

The jingle of a bell told Miharu about the arrival of another customer.

He was a man in his mid-twenties, close-cropped brown hair smattered with sprinklings of gray. Dark brown, almost black eyes. Strong jaw. What drew Miharu's attention was, however, the way the newcomer walked and the look in his eyes.

They looked… dead. Haunted. As if they had no reason to see anything anymore.

"What are you here for?" The words flew out before he could stop them.

The newcomer started in surprise before answering. "Are you the owner?"

"No."

The other man grunted. "Looking for clocks, obviously."

"Why?"

"Because I need to know the time." The answer was delivered in a flat monotone.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? I'm not a human clock, brat."

Refusing to let the man rile him up, Miharu asked again, "If you wanted a new clock, you could've picked one up at the supermarket a few blocks away from here. But you chose this old-fashioned shop. We're the only ones here. I have my own reason. What's yours—your real reason?"

The stranger was silent, and for a moment Miharu feared he had gone too far and he'd better apologize—

"You're pretty perceptive." He snorted. "I'm a writer. I have a deadline. Figured a clock would help with time management."

"I see."

A shrug. "What's yours?"

"Mine?" Miharu asked.

"Your reason."

"Oh." Fingering a delicate clock with intricately-carved leafy designs, Miharu wondered if he should tell. Deciding that it was only fair, he said, "I… won't be here any longer."

"Why?"

"Cancer. Terminal."

The stranger stiffened.

"A month," Miharu answered to the unasked question.

Silence reigned in the clock shop once again.

"I thought… it was ironic. I'm running out of time. I'm in a clock shop. I guess… I wanted to know how much time I have left."

"I'm sorry," the stranger said awkwardly, yet Miharu could tell he meant it.

"Thank you," Miharu smiled sadly.

The clocks acted in unison. A few cuckoos sprung out, wooden birds shrilled, others flashed lights, while some made various noises.

Miharu looked at a clock. Six P.M.

"I really should be going back to the hospital now," he said regretfully. "They want to do some check-ups."

"What's your name?" The stranger said suddenly.

"Miharu," said Miharu.

"Yukimi."

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. Yukimi."

The other man looked like he was about to say something, but at the last moment settled for a simple "You too."

He received an unexpected visit the next day from Mr. Yukimi.

"Mr. Yukimi? What are you doing here?"

"I knew someone who had terminal cancer a year ago. You remind me of him. Not just because of the cancer. Solitary, perceptive, different… he was like that too."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too." Yukimi sat in one of the plastic chairs the hospital had provided. "And cut the 'Mr. Yukimi' crap. It's Yukimi. Just Yukimi."

"Just Yukimi," Miharu beamed.

"How do you hold up?" Yukimi asked abruptly. "How do you stand knowing that a month from now, you're gone?"

"Like I said, I've accepted it. But sometimes… I don't want to go yet, you know?"

"I know," the older man said, barely audible.

"I want to do so much more. I want to be… remembered, I guess. I mean, they'll have a funeral for me and all, but after that…"

"He said that too," Yukimi whispered. "Yoite was his name. He accepted it, like you. He didn't want to go yet. Tried to stay for as long as he could, but in the end he went quietly." He looked at Miharu. "Are you going to go quietly?"

"I think…" Miharu thought for a bit. "I think I would do the exact same thing Yoite did."

Yukimi sighed. "I knew it."

Yukimi

A month and two weeks later, Miharu was gone.

"I want to be… remembered, I guess. I mean, they'll have a funeral for me and all, but after that…"

The funeral was small. A few nurses close to Miharu came with white roses and lilies. Yukimi, the odd one amid a throng of nurses, had no flower. He paid his respects and left quickly.

"I want to be remembered."

…And Yukimi knew just how to make sure Miharu would be remembered.

He turned on his laptop, flexed his fingers, began to type.