the turnings of the day

Ise Nanao is the sort of morning that knocks loudly on doors where people are nursing hangovers. The sunlight paints the rooftiles and the timbers in bright colours and brings the birds out squawking merrily.

(Some people throw things at those birds. Others pull pillows over their heads.)

She is the sort of twilight that comes on soft feet along the corridors, bringing the shadows behind her in the rustle of her clothing, and veils the waiting piles of paper with darkness for a little while.

(Some people light lanterns. Others fetch the wine and settle back for the night.)

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