In the morning, when Koyoi woke, the world outside the window was white. Not just any white. Not the feeble whiteness of milk diluted with water. It was a cold, aggressive white, as if a thin, sharp blade had scraped away only the outlines of visible things.
The corners of the town had vanished, and the mist exhaled thinly, like a living thing. The edges of roofs melted, and the mountains that should have been visible in the distance could only be seen halfway up. It was as if the world itself were the remains of something violently rubbed out with an eraser.
Inside the futon, Koyoi listened intently. The voice of the night still lingered deep in her ears. A sticky voice, like sweet nectar.
"……Hey."
It was like a voice, yet not a voice. Like the howling of the wind, or perhaps like someone breathing in sleep. She felt as though she were being called. She felt that if she answered, the edges of her own name would unravel and be sucked into the mist, so she did not open her mouth. The back of her throat ached with a spasming tightness.
From the kitchen came the sound of her mother's knife. Tontonton—a regular rhythm. That sound alone told her this was the real world. The scent of miso reached the room before the mist did.
"Are you awake?"
Her mother's voice was the same as always.
"Yeah."
Her mother shifted the lid of the pot, letting the steam escape. The rising steam and the mist creeping in from outside overlapped, turning the room a faint white. The aroma of miso felt a little distant in the damp air.
"The mist is thick today."
"Yeah."
"Watch your step."
It was less a worry and more a mantra repeated every morning. Koyoi nodded.
The breakfast table was as usual. White, shining grains of rice. The hard sound of chopsticks striking a bowl. A chip on the rim of a tea bowl. Her mother said nothing unnecessary. Not about the dreams of last night, nor about the depth of the mist. Koyoi, too, said nothing of the voice from the night. She felt that if she spoke of it, the words would take shape in that instant and carry her away to a far-off place.
When she washed her face, the water was ice-cold and pricked her fingertips. Her breath was white and vanished before her eyes. Even her own outline in the mirror was blurred by the humidity. She wasn't sure whether the person she was today was the same person she had been yesterday. An anxiety crept in, as if she were being replaced by someone else every time she blinked.
She wrapped her lunch and put on her bag. Only the sensation of the leather strap digging into her shoulder felt certain. Opening the front door, the mist touched her skin like a wet cloth. The cold, heavy air clung to her hair.
The signpost was blurred, its characters difficult to read. The ink had run, looking like black tears. Only the name of Kirihara Town barely remained. The character for "Mist" was strangely dark, while the character for "Town" looked as if it would vanish at any moment.
The paper on the bulletin board was damp, the characters wavering. Only the character for "Festival" could be read; beyond that, everything had melted away.
She didn't know what kind of festival it was, or when it would be held—nothing of importance could be understood.
The shop curtains swayed, and the backs of the stores could not be seen. Only the presence of people moved within the white. Like silhouettes, without sound, without mass.
The road to school was only halfway visible. Even though it was the usual path, today it felt as if it led somewhere else entirely. Footsteps returned with a slight delay. A strange sensation, as if the katsu, katsu sounds were echoing not from the soles of her feet but from deep beneath the ground.
The sound of the river was close, roaring loudly, yet the flow was invisible. Placing her hand on the bridge railing, Koyoi crossed. The railing was damp and cold, the texture of moss lingering slimily on her fingers.
The white walls of the school building floated from within the mist like a giant ship. At the entrance, Teacher Isao was opening the register.
"Good morning."
"Good morning. The mist is thick, so make sure not to wander on your way home."
The teacher's voice sounded smaller and more muffled than usual. She felt as if the mist were absorbing it. Words melted into the air, losing their meaning.
The classroom windows were like white paper. Nothing could be seen outside, and the Boundary between outside and inside was thin. A thought crossed her mind: if she opened the window, wouldn't the entire classroom fill with mist and everyone vanish?
Teacher Isao took attendance, and the children responded in unison. At the edge of the register, the teacher's finger stopped once. Koyoi did not look at whose name it was. No—she did not want to look. The sound of chalk scraping on the blackboard. The sound of desks creaking. All of it was surely there. And yet, it felt like something happening far away.
Even so, Koyoi's ears were searching for a different sound. The voice of the night. That sweet voice sunken deep within the mist.
Before noon, the teacher ended the lessons early.
"That is all for today. Go home early."
No one complained. Mist days were like that. The laws of the world loosened just a bit, and time grew shorter.
Stepping into the hallway, the footsteps of children echoed. The dry pattering sounds were sucked into the mist.
Koyoi thought of her usual way home. But today, she wanted to choose a different path. If she went straight home, there would be the house where her mother waited. Something tugged at her feet.
Leaving the school gate, the mist was still thick. The familiar shopping street was cut off in the distance. Beyond it was nothing but solid white, like a cliff's edge.
Koyoi turned her steps toward the road opposite from home. The road leading to the station. It would be a detour. Her mother might scold her. Nevertheless, her feet moved of their own accord. Like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
The clock at Kirihara Station looked as if only its hands were floating in the air. The face had melted into the white. Water droplets fell from the platform roof. Potsun, potsun.
Seizo, the ticket seller, poked his face out of the small window. He aligned coins with his fingertips, making a jingle inside the box. That sound alone was strangely vivid.
"Is the train coming today?"
When Koyoi asked, Seizo shook his head.
"It's late on mist days. Until the Boundary settles down."
His smiling face blurred in the mist. Only his eyes shone quietly. A dull, cold light, like worn silver coins.
Seizo lined up the tickets, straightening them with his fingertips. The old tickets had rounded corners. Proof that they had passed through many hands.
Koyoi nodded and looked toward the edge of the platform. The station rails were damp and let out a small sound each time they were stepped on. She thought she heard a distant bell mingling from beyond the mist. A high-pitched chiring. But perhaps it was only the ringing in her own ears.
The characters on the station name board were half-hidden by the mist. Only the single character for "Mist" could be seen.
She didn't know where the true name was. Perhaps this town itself was an illusion shown by the mist.
By the side of the road to the station, there was a vacant lot surrounded by a wooden fence.
A "Keep Out" sign was fixed with rusted nails.
Beyond the sign, in the middle of the vacant lot, an old man was sitting. An old man like a shadow darker than the mist. The kimono he wore was ancient, so dirty its color was indistinguishable. His staff rested on his knees, his hands clasped. As if the whiteness of the mist were avoiding only the old man, the air stagnated around him alone.
Koyoi stopped. The voice of the night wavered deep in her ears again.
"……This way."
"How long will this mist last?"
When Koyoi spoke, the old man narrowed his eyes. She felt as though the pupils deep within those wrinkles had, for an instant, been replaced by something else.
"Until the Boundary moves."
The old man said this and flicked something from the darkness near him. It was a pouch with a chipped bell. The cloth bag did not trace an arc but slid along the ground, coming to rest at Koyoi's feet. The cloth was old, its texture rough. The cord was worn, and the rim of the bell was chipped.
"……That."
"Keep it."
The old man's voice was hoarse and difficult to hear.
"If you can see it, keep it. Do not call. Just watch. It remains simply by being seen."
Koyoi took a single step closer. A gap in the wooden fence was slightly open in the mist. Only now did it occur to her that the pouch must have slid through there.
The wooden boards creaked, and there was the smell of damp earth. A round spot where no grass grew sat at the center of the vacant lot. Only the trace of someone having stood there remained. In that spot alone, time seemed to have stopped.
Koyoi avoided the trace and checked the weight of the pouch. It was light, yet not light. It wasn't that something was stuffed inside. And yet it had the weight of existence.
"Why me?"
The old man laughed a little. The way he laughed was strange. His mouth was certainly smiling. Chipped teeth were visible, and the wrinkles on his cheeks deepened. But his eyes were not smiling. His eyes alone watched Koyoi like a separate living thing. Eyes like a wet darkness peering from the bottom of a well. The laughter vanished immediately. As if he had never been laughing at all.
"Your ears are open."
She didn't understand the meaning. But she could not deny it. Because Koyoi had always known that there was a gaping hole inside her.
"……What do you mean?"
The old man did not answer. Instead, a small whisper drifted from the direction of the shrine. The whisper was like the wind, yet not the wind. She felt as if a name had been called. But that name was not "Koyoi." It was a much older, forgotten name.
The grove of trees on the hill swayed in the mist. The shadow of a small shrine was sunken there. Koyoi wanted to look back. But she felt that if she did, it would vanish.
The bell did not ring. Even so, the pouch was certainly in her hand. The sensation of the cord tangling around her fingers was an anchor to reality.
The old man's appearance was strange. Within the mist, he grew even thinner. No—it was not that he was becoming thin. He was melting. It was not that the mist was eating the old man's outline; the old man himself was seeping out into the mist. From his fingertips, from his shoulders, from his feet. As if, from the very beginning, he had been made of mist.
"……Go home."
That voice alone remained clear. It should have come from the old man's mouth, yet it was heard from all directions. As if the mist itself were speaking.
Koyoi did not answer and retied the cord of the pouch. The firm knot her mother had taught her. The station rails hummed faintly. Beyond the mist, she sensed the presence of someone standing.
She looked back.
The old man was not there. In the middle of the vacant lot, in the round spot where no grass grew, only a staff stood. The staff was thrust into the ground, swaying slightly. As if it had only just been driven in.
"……Old man?"
The voice was sucked into the mist. There was no answer. Something small shone at the tip of the staff. It was not a water droplet. A colder, metallic light.
Koyoi could not move from that spot. Her feet were heavy, as if sewn to the ground. The cord of the pouch bit into her wrist.
The staff tilted slowly, just once. It was pointing north. Toward the mountains. Toward the Boundary.
Deep in the mist, something moved. Not a human figure. Something larger, something more ambiguous. She sensed it watching her.
Koyoi ran. Toward home, through the mist, nearly tripping as she went.
She felt a gaze on her back. She must not look back. If she looked back, she would never be able to return.
The pouch in her hand trembled slightly. The bell did not yet ring.