The second day was the sound.
Raizen remembered it arriving the way a gentle rain arrives - gradually, ambiguously, the kind of change you noticed only when someone else mentioned it. He'd been in the yard, the year he was ten, kicking a leather ball against the grain storage wall, when his mother had stopped in the doorway and tilted her head.
"Do you hear that?" she'd asked.
He'd stopped kicking. Listened. Heard nothing - the wind, the chickens, the distant sound of someone hammering.
"Hear what?"
His mother had stood in the doorway for a long moment, her head still tilted, her eyes unfocused in the way they got when she was listening to something far away. Then she'd shaken her head. "Never mind. Maybe it's nothing."
