Inside the train, a heavy silence lingered. The records they had unearthed in the Archives seemed to weigh down the very air in the carriage.
Outside the window, particles of information drifted past like falling snow, but none of the three saw them. Koyoi was the first to break the silence.
"It’s a lie."
Kuon looked up.
"It isn’t a lie. It was written in the original manuscript."
"Then the manuscript is lying," Koyoi insisted. "Because those children would never throw away their names of their own accord. They’re so warm. I can feel how much they want to see someone again. How much they want to go home."
Koyoi rested the drawstring bag on his lap. Shizuku remained motionless, still trembling.
But the warmth hadn't faded.
Kuon kept the catalog closed on his knees, his hand resting on the cover.
"If the original records are accurate, the initial Freezing was voluntary. But we don't know if the mass Freezings that followed were carried out for the same reason. What the first deity chose and what happened to the thousands or tens of thousands after... they might be entirely different things."
"Different things?"
"The first was a volunteer. But that became the precedent. It’s possible the Observers used that precedent as a justification to begin the forced Freezings."
Asahi spoke up, his arms crossed tightly.
"Either way, the fact is they’re suffering now. We can worry about the 'why' later. Let’s just save them first."
"To save them, we must understand the reason."
Kuon’s voice grew rigid.
"If it was voluntary, unfreezing them requires their own will. If it was forced, we simply need to sever the chain of command. The procedure is entirely different."
Koyoi placed his hand over the drawstring bag. It was shaking. It was warm, yet it wouldn't stop trembling.
"Hey," he whispered to the bag. "Tell me the truth."
Shizuku didn't answer.
But the trembling subsided, just a fraction. Perhaps that was the answer.
The scenery outside the window shifted. The snow of information vanished, replaced by the sight of dark, jagged rock faces.
Mountains.
The train wound its way through the narrow passes. Nothing was carved into the stone. No names, no symbols, no light.
It was just raw, silent stone.
"We’re entering the Gorge of the Moon," Kuon said curtly. "The reach of the 'Laws' is weakest here. The Observers’ gaze is thin. That is why the oldest records remain."
"The oldest?"
"Records from before the Freezing of Names began. What happened before the beginning—it's all here."
The train began to slow.
The canyon walls pressed in from both sides, narrowing the sky to a silver sliver. They were running along the very bottom of the gorge. Koyoi gazed out at the dark stone. There were no names here. Nothing had been frozen.
It was a place from a time before names even existed.
The drawstring bag finally stopped shaking. Shizuku fell silent.
The train came to a halt. As the doors slid open, the scent of damp earth and ancient stone filled the carriage. There was light, yet the world felt hazy, as if the shadows had no edges. It was as if the canyon walls were drinking in the radiance.
Kuon held the catalog tight, tracing his fingers over the leather binding without opening it.
"...In this place, listen before you read. The rocks themselves remember the records."
Asahi stepped out first. The crunch of his boots on the gravel echoed through the gorge, overlapping in a series of sharp, lonely sounds.
Koyoi clutched the drawstring bag to his chest as he followed Asahi onto the ground. The stones beneath his feet were cold. Yet, within that chill, there was a weight that felt strangely nostalgic. A simple, honest weight—the weight of things before they were ever given names.
The three began walking into the depths of the canyon in silence. The metallic hum of the train faded behind them until only the sound of the wind and the stone remained.