A single andon lantern stood alone in the mist. Around it, there were no houses, no roads—not even the pillars of a station stop to be seen.
Only a small light resting upon a stone. Its wick was charred black, drooping low.
Koyoi knelt before the lantern. To the touch, it was cold, yet it held the lingering presence of something that refused to stay dark.
“...This is one of the lights they were counting,” Kuon murmured.
“Counting?”
“There’s a section for it in the Himimachi lighthouse records. A tally of lights left along the path. ...This makes two hundred and forty.”
Two hundred and forty. It was just a number, yet a faint warmth stirred deep in Koyoi's chest.
He brought the drawstring pouch closer to the lantern. He could feel the warmth of the Shizuku within. Suddenly, the wick twitched, lifting upward. It wasn't fire that emerged, but a pale, aqueous glow—almost light blue.
As the light returned to the andon, a single line materialized deep within the mist. The line of a path. The fading track was edged in light, regaining its form for just one more moment.
“...As long as there’s light, we can move forward,” Asahi said, his voice catching his breath.
Kuon nodded. “Light builds the path. The path leads to the next light. That is why we count them. Anything that can be counted has not yet truly vanished.”
Koyoi stared at the lantern’s glow. The light of the two hundred and fortieth story. He didn't know who had left it there, but right now, it was they who were keeping it lit.
“...Let’s catch up to whoever’s leaving them,” Koyoi said.
At his words, the Shizuku gave a small, rhythmic pulse.
The three of them stood and began to walk, leaving the lantern’s glow behind them. The light grew distant, yet it did not fade. The number two hundred and forty felt like a small, steady weight against their backs, grounding them.
“About that two hundred and fortieth light...” Koyoi said softly. “I still don't know how to put the two hundred and fortieth story into words.”
Kuon tapped his catalog, sensing the boundaries of the world around them. “If you can’t find the words, leave it in the form of a lantern. If you don't give it a voice, it's harder for it to be stolen.”
Asahi gave a short, sharp laugh. “If you're going to leave something behind, do it with your back. Presence follows the one who keeps moving forward.”
“...Yeah.”
Koyoi did not look back.
As the mist thinned, the sensation beneath their feet shifted. The sand increased, the stones grew sparse; the hardness meeting their soles changed with every step.
Asahi stood with his sword still sheathed. He had decided that drawing it would be his final act. No one spoke a needless word until their three shadows aligned in the same direction.
In the distance, another small light flickered. Was it the two hundred and forty-first light, or merely a phantom birthed by the mist?
There was only one way to find out: keep walking.
Feeling the warmth of the pouch, Koyoi took the next step. The lantern’s light receded behind them, but it did not go out. A light that never fades becomes the path.