In the east wing of the Repository, there was a room without a door.
The entrance was low; even Kuon had to bow his head to pass through. Once inside, the ceiling soared, and racks lined the walls on all four sides.
Stacks of manuscripts were piled upon the shelves. But there was something strange about them.
The writing was fading.
Koyoi picked up a stack within reach. The sheets were light—as light as a parched leaf, feeling as though they might crumble between his fingers. The ink was losing its color. Only faint grey lines remained, like ghosts on the page.
"I can't read it."
"They've become unreadable."
Kuon stood before a rack, picking up a different volume. He did not open his catalog, nor did he use his prosthetic eye; he simply stared at the pages.
"This is the Chamber of Fading. I have heard of it."
"Fading?" Koyoi asked as he returned the stack to its place.
"Stories exist through the act of telling. When a story loses those who listen, it gradually loses its power. The ink fades, the paper turns brittle, and eventually, nothing remains."
Kuon replaced the manuscript where he had found it.
"They weren't discarded. They were forgotten."
Asahi stood in the center of the room, looking up at the surrounding tiers. They reached all the way to the ceiling, and every single one was piled high with collections of fading pages.
"…All of them?"
"Everything in this room," Kuon nodded.
Koyoi approached another rack. The stacks on the lower tiers were even thinner than those above. Even the traces of characters were beginning to vanish.
The moment he touched it, the edge of the sheet crumbled. Fine, powder-like fragments fell from his fingertips.
"Ah—"
Koyoi pulled his hand back in a hurry, but it was too late. The corner of the stack had chipped away, and from there, the fibers began to unravel.
Slowly, like a thread unraveling.
Koyoi held his breath.
Upon the crumbling page, a single final line became visible. Pale, ash-grey characters.
Only one word could be read.
—Thank you.
Then, it vanished. The paper turned to dust, leaving nothing but a thin layer of silt upon the wood.
Koyoi’s eyes grew hot.
"…Will our story end up like this too, someday?"
Kuon did not answer.
It was Asahi who spoke.
"It will not."
His voice was low.
"A story still moving forward does not fade. Only those that have come to a halt do."
Asahi placed a hand on the shelf. He did not touch the pages, only the wooden frame.
"These stories did not simply stop. They simply ran out of people to listen. It’s not the story’s fault."
Kuon opened his catalog. He began to record the location of the Chamber of Fading and the number of its shelves. He did not use his prosthetic eye.
"I will record it. If only to ensure the catalog remembers that this room existed."
Koyoi gripped his drawstring pouch. The Shizuku was quiet. It was neither warm nor cold, pulsing with a gentle, steady rhythm.
The air in the Chamber of Fading was dry. It didn't smell of dust; it was a quiet scent—the smell of paper and ink being lost to the long passage of time.
Koyoi looked back one last time before leaving.
In the dim light, the manuscripts on the shelves swayed ever so slightly. Stirred by the air of the three of them moving, a final page turned.
For a fleeting second, unreadable characters caught the light and shimmered.
Then they, too, sank back into the stillness.
Koyoi lowered his eyes and stepped through the doorless entrance. Behind him, the Chamber of Fading returned once more to silence.