Kuon shut the Registry.
A heavy sound followed. It was not merely the rustle of paper striking paper, but a dull thud that vibrated in the pit of the stomach—the sound of something final falling into place. The light that had radiated from the golden cover had already died out, leaving behind nothing but the worn leather of an ancient binding.
Silence fell over the carriage.
No one spoke. Only the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the rails marked the time, a monotonous repetition that served only to sharpen the storm raging inside Koyoi’s heart.
The gods were fabricated beings.
Cultivated from the debris of prayers, consumed as fuel for the world, and once worn thin, dismantled and recycled into new seeds. The warm droplets, the silver light, the whisper of the wind—all of it was nothing more than the functioning of precision parts, engineered exactly as the Observers intended.
Within the pouch, the gods fell utterly silent.
They were not crying, nor were they angry. They were simply still, lost in that deep, paralyzing silence unique to those who have looked upon a truth too heavy to carry. Koyoi rested the pouch on her lap, confirming its warmth with her palm.
So faintly that it was almost imperceptible, only the Rain God’s droplet pulsed. It was breathing. It was still alive.
"…I believe in you."
Koyoi whispered the words toward the pouch.
"I don’t care how you were born. The fact that you all cried in the palm of my hand… that is real."
Her voice trembled. No tears came; her anger was still too hot for them to fall.
Kuon tucked the Registry into his coat and leaned against the window, closing his eyes. The blue glow of his prosthetic eye faded, and his face returned to that of a boy his age. Between the strands of hair matted to his forehead, Koyoi could see thin veins bulging—the physical toll of processing information beyond human limits.
Asahi sat with his legs sprawled into the aisle, staring up at the ceiling.
"…Hey, Koyoi."
"…Yeah?"
"Parts, tools, whatever. It’s not the one who made 'em who gets to decide if they’re 'real.' It’s the one who stays by their side."
Asahi said nothing more, returning his gaze to the ceiling.
The train surged forward. The illusory sea outside the window had vanished at some point, replaced by a wall of mist. A blindingly white fog, like a blank page where nothing had been written. To Koyoi, that whiteness felt more radiant than anything she had ever seen.
Inside the pouch, the Moon God cast a faint, silver glow. Then the Wind God let out a tiny breath, and the Glass God caught the light, shimmering in response.
There were no voices. There were no words. There was only the light.
Koyoi rested her hand over that glow. Feeling the hard wood of the seat against her back, she closed her eyes. The swaying of the train rocked her like a cradle.
Beyond the mist, there was still no sign of the dawn.