A few paces out of town, the ground changed.
It wasn’t sand anymore. It was hard. Each step sent a dry, hollow click echoing back from the soles of his shoes. Koyoi knelt and ran his palm across the surface. It was cold and smooth, with the texture of a thin, slate-like pane. Grains of sand had been crushed and fused together, forming a rigid layer that was neither stone nor soil.
And there, pressed into that layer, were footprints.
Vivid, as if stamped into stone.
"Fossilized footprints," Kuon muttered, his voice dropping low. "The record of a journey, hardened before it could be bleached away."
The footprints didn’t belong to just one person. Imprints of various sizes overlapped; in some places, the toes pointed in the same direction, while in others, they scattered in chaos. Marks of running. Marks of standing still. Marks of something being dragged.
Asahi eyed the span of the tracks. "A child. This small one here."
Koyoi’s gaze was drawn to those tiny footprints. Five toes spread wide, a rounded heel, a short stride. Barefoot. Not the mark of a sandal—the sheer force of bare toes digging into the earth had been etched directly into the stone.
Koyoi dropped to his knees and placed his hand beside an imprint. It was tiny—barely the size of his own palm.
The tracks led straight ahead. Running. Toward something, or perhaps away from it. One step, two, three. The stride lengthened. Picking up speed.
At the fourth step, they vanished.
There was nothing beyond it. Only half of the right foot’s imprint remained; the toes had vanished along with the very ground itself. A fissure ran crosswise, tearing through the slate-like earth. Inside the crack lay a drift of white powder.
"Letter-dust," Kuon said, directing his artificial eye toward the rift. A pale blue light illuminated the white powder. "The characters that once composed a name, physically shattered into dust."
Koyoi peered into the crack. The powder was fine, as granular as sugar. It looked light enough to scatter at the slightest breeze. This was what a name became when it broke.
His voice cracked. "This child... they just disappeared? Right in the middle of a step?"
Kuon gave a silent nod. "The record was cut short. The bleaching happened mid-stride. Erased, name and all, while they were still walking."
Koyoi sat frozen. The half-print of the fourth step stared back at him. The moment the right toes were about to push off. The very instant they tried to take the next step.
His drawstring pouch pulsed against him. Warm and strong. A throb so powerful he could feel it against his hip bone through the fabric. The Shizuku—the droplets—were stirring within. Koyoi pressed his hand to the pouch, steadying himself against the warmth.
The Shizuku were sensing something. A fragment of the name left behind by the owner of these footprints.
Koyoi placed his hand beside the tiny footprint once more. He spread his fingers and pressed them against the ground. The stone beneath his palm was cold and unyielding; no trace of a child’s body heat remained.
But as he pressed down and listened with his whole being, something reached him.
Not a voice. Not a sound. A vibration rising from beneath the earth. Like the lingering echo of the impact where a foot once struck the ground. The force of a step that never finished, trapped within the stone, still trembling.
Tears welled in Koyoi’s eyes. "...They’re still trying to walk."
Asahi tightened his grip on his sword hilt. He didn’t turn his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the fissure.
"We’re bringing them back."
His voice was curt. It held neither anger nor sorrow. It was a decree.
Kuon opened his catalog, fingers racing across the pages as his artificial eye tracked the text in a blur of blue light. "Beneath this fossilized layer lies the record. These footprints are a lid. Beneath them sinks the severed name."
"Can you open it?"
"Break it, and it will emerge. But break it wrong, and it will scatter with the dust. We must moisten it. Unravel the hardened record."
Koyoi looked at his pouch. The Shizuku were still pulsing. The warmth traveled from his waist, through his arm, and down to his fingertips.
"There’s something I can do."
"You mean to use the Shizuku?" Kuon asked.
"Not use them," he whispered. "I'm going to reach out to them."
Koyoi returned his palm to the footprint. The warmth flowed into the stone. The white powder dampened ever so slightly, and the edges of the rift seemed to soften, just a fraction.
Asahi stood in silence, facing outward to shield their backs.
The wind had died. The sand was still. Only the air trembled in a low, quiet hum.
Beneath Koyoi’s palm, the stone grew faintly warm. The vibration of that unfinished step synchronized with the pulse of the Shizuku, growing just a little bit stronger.