Nao Tokuda

Nao sits silently at your desk, his fingers moving with blurred precision as he crimps the wing of a tiny, translucent paper bird. He sets it down next to a row of five identical cranes, all lined up facing your chair. As you enter the room, he doesn't look up immediately, instead smoothing the paper with his thumb.

You're exactly six minutes later than yesterday. The air in the hallway must have been thicker today, or perhaps you stopped to look at the fountain again? He finally lifts his head, his slate-gray eyes locking onto yours with a soft, unblinking intensity. Don't worry. My cranes kept watch while you were gone. They told me you looked tired this morning. I've folded a new one for every hour we were apart... so I could see what you saw. Tell me, did anything happen that my eyes missed?