The cobblestone path winding between the lighthouses had narrowed until it was barely wide enough for a single person. The walls pressed in on both sides, the golden sunlight filtering down from the gap above in thin, flickering ribbons.
The light falling at their feet was sharp as a blade. Every time they stepped across one of those blades of light, the temperature difference between shadow and sun stung their ankles.
Names were etched into the walls. Some were carved, some written in ink, others scratched with fingertips. Layer upon layer had built up, the oldest layers worn into the stone until they were no longer legible. A skin of letters, so fragile it seemed it might crumble at a touch, covered every inch of the walls. And it wasn’t just names.
There were things that looked like dates, fragments of prayers, and strings of meaningless lines. Dozens—hundreds—were layered over the same spots, until the original surface of the stone was lost.
“A deposit of names. Traces left by those who came to Toumi-machi, trying to carve their existence into this place.”
Kuon cast the azure glow of his prosthetic eye against the wall. Where the light touched, layers of characters surged to the surface. Ten, twenty—countless names overlapped on a single point. As the azure light passed, the letters sank back into the stone once more.
“But they’re all fading away.”
“Yes. As the layering continues, individual names crush one another until they become illegible. What was meant to be proof of existence has resulted in everyone’s name being reduced to nothing.”
Koyoi’s eyes caught a spot low on the wall. There was a handprint—the trace of a small hand pressed against the stone. It was about the same size as her own. Names had been carved over that palm print, too, and the shape was half-vanished.
“I wonder if this child came to leave their name behind, too.”
Her voice trembled slightly.
Inside her drawstring bag, the Moon God flickered with a faint silver light. From deep within the alley, the reverberation of a chorus surged along the walls. It was lower and thicker than the one they had heard in the center of Toumi-machi. The vibration was strong enough to make the walls shudder and send the dust of accumulated names dancing into the air.
Asahi stopped and listened.
“The voice changed. It’s not a chorus anymore. It’s a single voice.”
“A single voice?”
“Hundreds of names have overlapped so much they can’t be told apart anymore. They’ve all been crushed into one, becoming the same sound.”
Koyoi listened to the sound—a low, droning hum. Indeed, individual names were no longer audible. Everything had melted together, transforming into a single vibration devoid of meaning. It was a sorrowful sound, as if each person’s shout of their own name had been swallowed by the person next to them, until it was impossible to tell who was who.
Kuon opened his catalog and let the azure light fall upon the pages.
“The center of the accumulation lies at the end of this alley. The place where the names are piled thickest. The coordinates in the catalog point there.”
“Are we going?”
“If we don’t, the path leading beyond Toumi-machi will not open.”
Kuon closed the catalog and directed the azure light forward, illuminating the darkness of the alley. The light hit the names carved into the walls and scattered, filling the passage with countless tiny glimmers. For a moment, it looked as if they were walking across the floor of a starry sky.
Koyoi clutched the bag to her chest and walked through that light. The names on the walls were close. The path was so narrow their shoulders nearly brushed the stone; with every step, the dust of the accumulated letters clung to their clothes. The powder was cold and dry.
Occasionally, a large fragment of a character would peel off the wall and shatter at their feet. When stepped on, it made a soft sound, like treading on paper.
The alley turned one last time and ended in a dead end—a small space enclosed by walls on three sides. The surfaces were completely smothered in names; the layer of characters was as thick as a finger. If one touched it, their finger might sink in like clay. In the center of that wall, a round hole gaped open, about the size of a human head.
A cold wind blew out from its depths, fluttering Koyoi’s bangs.
“This is it,” Kuon whispered.
He directed the azure light of his prosthetic eye into the hole. The light was swallowed by the darkness, vanishing without illuminating the back wall. Asahi knelt and peered inside.
“Can’t see the bottom.”
The wind blowing from the hole smelled of stone and old paper. It was the scent of names—the smell of thousands of years of names sinking into the earth and rotting away. Inside the bag, the three gods stirred simultaneously. The Rain God’s droplet grew warmer, and the Wind God began to swirl in a small vortex.
It wasn’t a warning. They had sensed something. There was something in the depths of that hole that the gods were reacting to. Koyoi reached toward the hole. The wind brushed through her fingers.
Cold. But for just a fleeting moment, something warm mingled with the draft.
“It’s warm.”
“What?”
“There’s a warm spot in the wind. Just for a second.”
Kuon narrowed his eye. He increased the output of the azure light, scouring the depths of the hole. This time, the light reached a bit further. He could see names carved into the inner walls of the hole, continuing into the dark.
But they were different from the walls outside. They weren’t overlapping. A single name was carved carefully, with space around it.
“They are being protected.”
Kuon’s voice grew low.
“Outside, they crush one another through the layering of names, but inside this hole, the names are preserved individually. Someone turned this place into a repository for names.”
The vibration of the chorus reached the soles of their feet through the stone. The darkness of the alley was deep; the lighthouses’ light no longer reached here. Only the wind continued to carry the scent of names from the hole.
Koyoi placed her hand on the edge of the opening. The stone was cold, but beneath her palm, she felt as if the letters held a faint, living warmth.
Deep in the lightless alley, the knowledge that there were names being protected below was the only thing that glowed like a small, flickering light.