Every time the Mist Train swayed, the chains of the hanging straps gave a small, metallic clink.
Koyoi leaned back against his seat, confirming the warmth held within his palm.
Shizuku was quiet. So quiet, in fact, that it made Koyoi uneasy.
Kuon kept the Catalog on his lap, leaving the pages unturned. Even the blue glow of his prosthetic eye had been dimmed.
“...Don't read it now,” Kuon said, his gaze fixed forward. “The Scripture House’s script follows you even after you leave, drawn by the lingering trace of Shiori’s handwriting. For every word you read, a piece of your own outline is shaved away.”
Asahi stood by the window, staring out into the void. “Then what are we using for a compass?”
“...The lingering scent,” Kuon replied tersely.
Koyoi shifted his gaze to the carriage interior. An old bulletin board. A timetable. Scraps of paper peeling away. Among them, he spotted a single note written with heavy pressure.
It wasn't ink. It was pencil.
Koyoi’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs. It was Shiori’s handwriting—the slightly rounded characters, the way she always paused at the end of a stroke.
“...Shiori-san,” Koyoi whispered.
The moment the name left his lips, he clamped his mouth shut in a panic. Yet, the written words did not vanish.
『Don't give it a voice. If you must read, read with your breath. Go to the Moon Gorge. The surveillance is thin there. But because it is thin, you must hold hands before you fall. Don’t let Asahi go first. Don’t make Kuon shoulder everything.』
Koyoi softly traced the edge of the paper. The pencil marks had slightly indented the fibers of the page. That physical groove brought back the memory of the strength in Shiori’s fingers.
Shiori was always meticulous, even when she was in a hurry. Even while fleeing, she never let her script falter when it came to the things that needed to be told. That was why these words remained.
“...Why go to such lengths...?”
Koyoi lowered his voice, swallowing the rest of his words. It wasn’t the Observers he was afraid of hearing him—it was his own weakness.
He pressed his finger against the scrap of paper. It felt damp, as if someone had touched it only moments ago.
“...I found it,” Koyoi said.
Kuon looked up, asking a question with his eyes alone. Koyoi pointed to the bulletin board. Asahi stepped closer, frowning as he looked at the note.
“...Is she still leaving a trail for us?”
Kuon’s fingertip tapped the cover of the Catalog. “...Handwriting is slower than a Record. That is why it lingers.”
Koyoi nodded. “Let’s go. To the Moon Gorge.”
He tucked Shiori’s words away, this time deep within his heart. Asahi spoke, his arms still crossed.
“‘Hold hands,’ huh... so that’s what she meant.”
Kuon gave a slight nod. “Where surveillance is thin, the ground of the Laws is also thin. That is exactly why people fall. And when they fall, they cry out for help. If a voice is raised, it will be intercepted.”
Koyoi caught his breath and returned the paper to the board. If they took it with them, it would be stolen. If they left it here, someone else might read it. That was fine.
The Mist Train gave a great, heavy groan. In place of a bell announcing their destination, the sound of grinding iron rang out. It was a signal that they could "still run," but also a warning that they could "no longer go back."
No one spoke until the three of them stood so their shadows aligned in the same direction.
Koyoi clutched his drawstring bag, listening to Shizuku’s pulse as a sound. The steady, calm throb pushed back against his palm with the same strength as the indentations of Shiori’s writing.
“...Even if you don't say them aloud, the traces of handwriting remain, don't they?”
Kuon nodded slightly. “Records can be erased. But the grooves in paper cannot. Anything carved into the physical world lies outside the jurisdiction of the Laws.”
Asahi turned his eyes back to the window. Beyond the mist, the faint outline of jagged rock was beginning to appear. He could sense the train approaching the canyon.
Koyoi closed his eyes and traced Shiori’s script once more in his mind. The depth of the indentations lingered on his fingertip. He wondered what Shiori had been looking at when she wrote those words.
The train’s creaking subsided, and the carriage fell silent. Only the sound of the chains continued to ring, ticking away the time.