# Episode 203: The Secret of Shiori’s Notebook
He opened the notebook to find nothing written inside.
Koyoi lifted the thin leather cover and leafed through the pages. White paper followed white paper. There were no words—no traces of ink, not even the faint pressure of a pencil. Under the lamp, the fibers of the paper were barely translucent. Koyoi knit his brows.
“...It’s just as I thought. It’s blank.”
“It isn’t blank.”
Kuon reached out. He moistened his fingertip with his tongue and slowly traced the edge of a page. The paper shifted a shade darker where it was damp. Along the path his finger took, a faint ridge emerged—a line as fine as a hair, flickering in the light.
“It’s not ink. It’s oil. Shiori left indentations instead of writing. Ink can be erased or washed away, but a groove pressed in oil won't vanish unless the paper is burned.”
Koyoi touched the page. He could see nothing, but the surface held a fine network of grooves. His fingertip couldn't feel them, but his nail caught the lines as they curved and branched. They were shallow, delicate tracks.
It was a map.
“Can you read that?” Asahi asked.
“I can. If I change the angle of the light, the shadows will emerge.”
Kuon dimmed the light of his prosthetic eye and cast a thin, blue beam across the paper at a grazing angle. Shadows stretched. The pressed lines rose from the page one by one. Koyoi held his breath. An intricate diagram materialized on the sheet he had thought was blank.
Three circles had been drawn, each with a small mark beside it. Kuon cross-referenced them with the ledger and read them aloud.
“Shimozato. Hoshifuri Town. The Port of Sea Charts.”
They were the names of three towns. Connecting them were paths that ran beneath the earth. Narrow corridors linked circle to circle, snaking as if to avoid obstacles aboveground. The varying thickness of the lines suggested the passages changed in width.
“They’re tunnels,” Koyoi whispered. His fingertips were still trembling. “The wells in these three towns are connected underground.”
Kuon spread the ledger, comparing it to Shiori’s map. The blue light flickered back and forth. With every adjustment of the beam, the impressions revealed a different facet of their secrets.
“There is another mark in the center of the triangle, pressed deeper than the rest. It has been reinforced, traced over again and again.”
“The Repository,” Koyoi said. It sat exactly at the center of the three towns.
“Yes. Shiori didn’t just leave a map. She left instructions.”
“Instructions?”
“If you visit the three wells, the path to the Repository opens. The wells are the keys, and the Repository is the lock.”
Kuon’s voice held a slight tremor. The depth of the oil spoke of Shiori's resolve. That mark for the Repository, scarred into the fibers, wasn't a sign of hesitation. It was the obsession of someone determined to be understood.
Koyoi turned to the very last page. The oily textures ended there; the map was a single sheet. But tucked into the final fold of the binding, something had been hidden.
It was a pressed flower.
Thin, dry petals lay crushed between the pages. The color had faded to a dull brown, but the shape of the five petals remained intact. There was no stem; only the flower head had been carefully placed there. When Koyoi leaned in, a faint, sweet aroma reached him. Even though it was withered, it still carried a scent. The leather cover had sealed the fragrance inside.
“...It smells like Shiori.”
Koyoi’s voice cracked. Oil and petals. Knowing her words would be stolen, someone had carved a path beyond language. She had left a map and a scent, a message for whoever came after that could never be erased.
Asahi looked away. He gripped the hilt of his sword, then slowly relaxed. The mark of his grip lingered on the leather.
“She planned everything, didn't she?”
“She planned what she could,” Kuon corrected quietly. “The rest is up to us.”
His voice was low and hard. He had accepted the burden.
Koyoi pressed the notebook to his chest. Beside his pouch, he felt the solid weight of the leather. Lines of oil and a pressed flower—a guide for the wordless.
The Shizuku pulsed with a warm rhythm. Through the notebook's cover, the faint, dry scent of the flower drifted up to meet him.