Aiko’s hands were raw, the tips of her fingers covered in the dust of clay. The studio, usually filled with the soft hum of life and color, had become her sanctuary of silence. Only the sound of the clay breaking as it fell into shape, then the rhythmic pressing of her thumb against each delicate wing, filled the space. She would hold each bird to the light, inspecting it for flaws, before setting it down to dry.

Her partner, Haruto, lay in the room across the hall, his body still, trapped in a coma that had lasted nearly a year. Doctors said there was no hope. They told her that it was a waiting game now, a matter of time before his body would give way. But Aiko refused to listen.

She believed in the old stories, the ones her grandmother had whispered to her when she was young. One thousand birds. One thousand perfect birds, each made with love and patience, and the spirit of a devoted heart. The story had always intrigued her, but it wasn’t until Haruto had fallen into this silent slumber that she truly believed.

Each bird she molded, smoothed, and shaped took a day of her life. She didn’t need to ask for a day in return. She didn’t even count. It didn’t matter how long it took. She would give a thousand days, if it meant bringing him back.

Her hands trembled slightly as she shaped the last of the thousand birds. The process had grown harder with each passing day. The clay no longer felt as soft in her hands, and the tears often blurred her vision as she worked. She had told herself that the pain was part of the ritual, part of the offering to whatever ancient force could listen, could understand her love for him.

Every day, she would carry a bird to his side. She would whisper to him, as if the words might seep through the layers of his mind. “This is for you,” she would say, her voice quivering. “One thousand birds, one thousand days... to bring you back.”

The birds were spread across the studio now, carefully arranged, their shapes delicate and perfect, each one a record of her devotion. But the last bird, the final one—she hesitated. She had given so much, poured so much of herself into these small figures of clay, that she wondered if she would have anything left to give.

As she held the last bird in her hands, the silence of the room was broken by a faint sound—a breath, soft but unmistakable. Her heart raced. She placed the bird down with trembling hands and rushed to his side.

Haruto’s chest rose and fell, slow but steady. His fingers twitched. Aiko’s breath caught in her throat as she held his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin, a warmth she hadn’t felt in what felt like forever. His eyes fluttered open, the brown depths clear and familiar, filled with confusion but also something else—recognition, love, and a deep, unfathomable connection.

“Aiko...” His voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough.

Tears streamed down her face as she cradled his hand to her cheek. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

The room was quiet again, except for the gentle sounds of the birds drying in the next room. A thousand birds, a thousand days—she had given them all. And in return, she had found him again, alive, with her.

He had come back. The ritual had worked.

But as Aiko looked over at the last bird, still sitting on the table where she had left it, she realized something. She had given him her days, each one carved into the fragile shape of a clay bird, and in return, he had given her back the one thing that mattered most—time.

She hadn’t counted the days when she made the birds. She hadn’t needed to. Time had always been something they had, something they shared. And now, as the first light of dawn stretched across the room, Aiko knew that she had not lost a single moment of her life, for she had spent each one on the only thing that truly mattered.

Haruto.