Chapter 11 - Ordinary Hours
Morning is slow on purpose.
Rae sets two bowls on the table. “Rice and soft eggs,” she says. “Scallions?”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
We eat. We rinse. I leave the door open a finger-width, the wedge holds it. Rae taps the gap with a smile.
“Work plan?” she asks.
“Bell shift, one hour,” I say. “Then errands. Then the Mill.”
“Call with Mara at noon,” she says. “Stay close?”
“I’ll be here,” I say.
Bell-keeper hour
The caretaker hands me the glove and nods at the wheel. “Light coat,” he says.
“May I?” I ask the room.
“Please,” the Cantor says.
I oil the guide wheel, wipe the tin, close the cabinet. People settle on benches, parents with a stroller, a nurse between shifts, two students whispering until they see the sign and quiet themselves.
The Cantor lifts her hand. “Count first.”
We breathe in together. On my pull, the bell gives a clean tone and the late overtone follows. **sol-la-do-fa.** It lands small and right.
A boy raises his hand. “Why only once?”
“Because the room answers better when it’s a choice,” I say.
He nods like that makes sense.
When we’re done, a new volunteer asks, “Do I pull hard?”
“Pull true,” I say. “Shoulders down. Ask first.”
She tries. The bell coughs, then clears. She laughs once, surprised at her own hands. I give her a quiet thumbs-up.
Noon call
Rae sits by the open door with her phone in speaker mode. “Hey, Mara,” she says. “I’m here.”
“I’m loud today,” Mara says. Her voice is rough with sleep and pride. “Can you handle it?”
“Medium loud is okay,” Rae says. “If I say ‘small,’ we slow.”
There’s a pause, then a laugh. “You and your rules. Do they work?”
“They help,” Rae says. “I’m trying to love you without shouting.”
I pour tea and set a cup beside her hand. I don’t speak.
“Is he there?” Mara asks.
“Yes,” Rae says. “He’s good at doors.”
Mara snorts. “Weird compliment. I’ll take it.”
“We’ll talk Sunday,” Rae says. “I love you.”
“I love you,” Mara says. “Try again tomorrow.”
“Always,” Rae says, and ends the call. She leans back and blows out a breath. “That was better.”
“You were clear,” I say.
“She listened,” Rae says. “It’s work.”
“Light, quiet work, repeated,” I say.
She taps my knee. “Put that on the card.”
Errands
Mrs. Karasu waves us into the hall. “Come see,” she says, holding up the plant. New leaves. No leak.
“Good job,” Rae says.
“Good hands,” I add.
In the market, the pear seller calls, “Rae and Ren!” We buy two. At the hardware stall, I get a small screwdriver set for the building’s loose hinges.
“Going pro?” Rae asks.
“Going neighbor,” I say.
We stop by the museum to drop a short note with the Memory Forger: **“Held one ring. No thunder. Enough.” - Ren**. She reads, nods, and adds it to a stack.
“Docent shifts open Saturday,” she says.
“Sign us up for one,” Rae says.
“Done,” the Forger says. “Ask-first tours only.”
Afternoon
Back home, I adjust the latch on Mrs. Karasu’s door so it closes without slamming. “Quarter turn,” I say.
She tests it. “Perfect,” she says. “You two eat dinner here Sunday.”
“We’d like that,” Rae says.
We tape a new line to our card:
**Light, quiet work, repeated.**
Rae adds another:
**If we’re proud, make it smaller.**
I grin. “That one is for me.”
“It’s for both of us,” she says.
Whisper Mill
Evening brings us to the Mill. The room smells like tea and wood. The leader raises her hand. “Two-minute shares,” she says. “Consent first, no fixes unless asked.”
A man in a delivery jacket goes first. “I wanted to yell at a driver,” he says. “I didn’t. I counted in the cab instead.” The room nods. “Thank you,” the leader says.
A teen says, “I miss noise sometimes.” She looks around. “I don’t want to go back. I just miss the rush.”
“Thank you,” the leader says. “If you want rush, ask a drummer later.” A soft laugh moves through the room.
Rae squeezes my hand. “Want to share?” she whispers.
I stand. “My name is Caelren,” I say. “Ren is fine. Today I rang once and left the rest alone. It felt good.” I sit.
Rae stands. “My name is Rae,” she says. “I called my sister. We used rules instead of volume. We’re trying again Sunday.” She sits.
The leader nods. “Thank you.”
We breathe together. The kettle clicks off at its own time. Cups pass. A volunteer writes verbs on the board: **breathed, asked, washed, called, held, oiled, learned**. It looks like a service schedule for a life.
On the way out, a kid in a yellow paper crown tilts her head at us. “Nice door note,” she says, pointing to the card we pinned on the Mill board last night. Someone added a star sticker next to **Not watched. Welcome.**
Rae bows. “Thank you.”
Night
We cook soup and invite Mrs. Karasu to eat with us. She brings a jar of pickles. I ask, “Music while we eat?”
“Yes,” Rae says. “Two minutes, low.”
I put on a soft choral piece. After two minutes, I turn it off without being asked. Rae smiles. “Good rep,” she says.
We talk about small things, bus routes, the crown table at the museum, a stray cat that insists on sitting like a person. We wash dishes together, moving in a rhythm we didn’t plan and now trust.
When the bowls are dry, Rae points at the card. “Add the line you said this morning.”
I write:
**Little human powers, used the quiet way.**
Rae reads, nods, and writes a small heart next to it. “That’s today,” she says. “It can be tomorrow too.”
I open the window an inch. The tram turns the corner and chimes its four notes. **sol-la-do-fa.** **C–A–E–L.** We both hear it. We don’t need to say it.
Rae brushes my cheek with the back of her fingers. “How’s your body?” she asks.
“Steady,” I say. “Hungry for sleep.”
“Same,” she says. “Bed?”
“Bed.”
We leave the door a finger-width open. I place the coin and bell-key side by side on the table. I touch each once. Not a ritual for luck, just for thank you.
In the dark, Rae slides her hand into mine. “Good day,” she whispers.
“Good day,” I say. “Kitchen first. Then tower.”
“Then home,” she says.
“Then home,” I echo.
We breathe four in, hold two, four out. The house answers with small sounds, pipe tick, hinge sigh, a neighbor’s cup set down. No thunder needed. No show required.
I sleep before I can make a story of it.