Time moves too fast.
I think even the spirits of the dead would see that.
Maybe they'd understand how much of a problem that is.
.
Clocks rarely worked in Soul Society; Mayuri Kurotsuchi seemed to be the only one who could ever make them function consistently. Most spirits never bothered to keep time anymore. There was simply no point. Soul reapers, in keeping with their rigid lifestyles, did; but it was rare that even they bothered with a clock of any kind. In other words, it was mostly an art—not a science—to know what time it was.
"The way things run in the living world," Hitsugaya said one day, while he sipped tea and watched the sky, "is so . . . structured. You would think I'd find it familiar, that I'd find comfort in it." Matsumoto, nibbling at a pastry, grunted an affirmation. "I don't."
"This coming from the man who finds Rukongai's lack of interest in time as a concept . . . stressful," Matsumoto murmured. "Are you sure that's what you don't like about the living world? I think it's still the fact that most people think you're a grade-schooler."
Hitsugaya rolled his eyes. "Okay, that . . . I mean, I don't like it, but that doesn't make it stressful. It's just . . . it means . . . it's not the same."
Matsumoto laughed. "If you say so, Captain. If you say so."
"It's just . . . there's structure, but it's still so hectic. Everything moves so quickly." Hitsugaya gesticulated randomly with his stirring spoon. "Every time I see living people, they seem to have aged so deeply. It's not just the difference between souls and living beings. It's . . . everything."
"Hmmm," said Matsumoto. "I guess I see your point there. It feels like nobody has any patience, and I think it must be that it's been forced out of them. Living people don't have time to reflect, or rest, or learn anything. They're too busy surviving."
Hitsugaya was nodding. "Exactly," he said.
"You know? Kurosaki said once that he thinks of his work here in Soul Society as a vacation." She smiled, a little disbelieving. "I think he'd understand exactly what you're talking about. He always makes me reevaluate things. It's hard not to."
"He's good at that," Hitsugaya said. "I don't think I was very surprised when I found out he was Captain Shiba's son." He drank his tea slowly, contemplatively. "He has Captain Shiba's spirit. There's something about them both . . . I can't help but find them comforting, somehow."
The idea of Hitsugaya being comforted by thoughts of his predecessor was ironic, to say the least. Matsumoto was quite sure that Third-Seat Hitsugaya would pull out his hair and eat it if he heard his older self say any such thing, and she wasn't positive whether it was distance or growth that spoke to this change in her captain's attitude.
"I think I understand," Matsumoto said. "Captain Shiba was one of the good ones."
"He's raised good children," Hitsugaya mused.
Matsumoto smiled. "Yeah," she agreed. "He did."
"I think he's come to understand what most of us forget around here," Hitsugaya went on, "and I think it's all to do with the fact that he was forced to retire: what time means. What we're supposed to do with it. Around here, we spend so much of our time just . . . filling it. Doing our best to forget we're dead, I think. In the living world, for as chaotic as everything seems to be in this modern age, I do think there's something to be said for . . . well. I don't know, really. I guess I just . . . wish I could properly remember what it felt like for time to be precious."
Matsumoto nodded. "That much," she said, "I understand. Still don't think I'm ready to go back there, though."
She didn't say I don't want to run the risk of not being able to find you again, but she thought it.