When I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was the wind.
A parched breeze caressing my cheeks. It wasn’t cold, nor was it warm; it was simply in motion.
A vast, slow pulse, as if the world itself were breathing, seemed to pass through the world and through Koyoi. Beneath her back, she felt the unyielding press of the ground. It wasn't stone, but desiccated earth. When she brushed it with her fingertips, the soil crumbled into fine, sand-like grains that slipped through her touch.
“...You still with us?”
Asahi’s voice drifted from close by. Koyoi pushed herself up, her vision swaying as she momentarily lost the sense of which way was up. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a silver wasteland of sand stretching as far as the eye could see.
They were high above the town. Below, Suzutomo appeared miniature. The silver bells hanging from the eaves shimmered like specks of light, and the cobblestone streets snaked away like serpents, eventually vanishing into the darkness. From this height, the clamor of the marketplace and the swaying of the teahouse curtains were silenced.
There was only the sound of the wind.
“...The Wind Garden,” Kuon said. “The highest peak in Suzutomo. This is where the Winds of Reason are born, and where they die.”
Kuon was already on his feet. Sand clung to the hem of his robes, and the azure glow of his prosthetic eye flickered feebly. The price of being spat out by the silver vortex had been steep; heavy shadows were etched beneath his left eye.
Koyoi checked her drawstring pouch.
The knot remained tight; the gods within were alive. The Moon God leaked a faint silvery light, while the Wind God shivered against the fabric of the pouch, as if resonating with the currents outside. The Glass God continued its cold, silent respiration.
“...Wind. I... know this... wind...”
The Wind God’s tiny voice drifted from the bottom of the pouch. Koyoi instinctively brought it closer to her ear. It was the first time the Wind God had spoken so clearly. On the sandy ground at her feet, the wind had traced countless thin lines. These patterns shifted every second—swirling, darting in straight lines, never knowing how to stay still.
“In this place, the wind blows before it is ever recorded,” Kuon remarked. “It is Reason in its rawest state, unobserved by any Watcher.”
Kuon knelt to trace a line in the sand with his finger. At his touch, the sand vibrated slightly, and a new furrow was born. It was as if the earth itself were responding to his touch.
“In other words, their eyes can’t reach us here?” Asahi asked, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Temporarily. But it won't last long. They’ve already picked up the trail of the catalog we stole from the scripture house.”
A single powerful gust whipped the clothes of the three companions. Sand swirled into the air, the silver particles forming a momentary pillar of light. When it collapsed, a massive, rounded boulder was revealed, standing at the heart of the garden. Its moss-covered surface was scarred with countless fine scratches.
Inside Koyoi’s pouch, the droplet of the Rain God gave a soft tap.
The smell of dry earth stung the back of her nose. This place was parched. It was crying out for water. From deep within the earth, a faint but unmistakable tremor of thirst pulsed up through the soles of her feet.
“...I want to go to that stone,” Koyoi said.
She didn’t know why. She only knew that the stone lay in the direction where the Rain God’s droplet pulsed with warmth. Asahi scanned the surroundings, and after confirming it was safe, he gave a nod.
Kuon narrowed his prosthetic eye, reading the fluctuations of Reason lurking at the far edge of the garden. The three of them began to walk across the sand. Their footprints were carved into the earth, only for the wind to sweep them away instantly. The sky was high and starless; only the moon burned a pale white behind a thin veil of clouds.
The dry wind caught their hair, rattled their sleeves, and whistled through their ears. Within that sound, Koyoi felt she could hear the remnants of the gods who had protected this place in the distant past.
As they stood beside the stone, the wind died down. The sound vanished, the sand settled, and the world held its breath.
The marks upon the stone had not been carved by the wind. When Koyoi touched it with her fingertips, the Rain God’s droplet pulsed more intensely than ever. Each scratch was a vestige of a name that had once protected this garden. They were the lingering fragrance of countless prayers that refused to vanish, despite being weathered by the gales and scorched by the sun.
Koyoi knelt before the stone and pressed both palms against it.
It was cold. And yet, deep within that coldness, a faint warmth remained.
Deep beneath the parched earth, someone was still breathing. At their feet, the sands of the Wind Garden began to swirl in a silent vortex.