When I opened Shiori’s notebook, nothing but blank pages followed. The lines were there, but the words were absent. Only the faint indentations formed a map—one that required warmth to be read.
Koyoi placed the drawstring pouch onto the page. Under the warmth of the Droplet, the lines began to rise to the surface.
The lines did indeed continue. But on one page, they came to a sudden halt. The final line. Beyond it, there was only the vast expanse of the furthest reaches.
"...It’s the furthest reaches."
Kuon spoke as if confirming a fact. "From here on, Shiori didn't 'record' anything. Whether she couldn't, or simply chose not to... I don't know."
Asahi flicked the edge of the notebook with his finger. "So, it’s the end of the record."
Koyoi shook his head. "It’s not the end. I think... I think she brought us this far."
In the corner of the blank page, there was a single, shallow indentation. Tracing it with a finger revealed the shape of characters.
Koyoi brought the Droplet closer. As the warmth seeped in, the indentation cast a shadow. Emerging from it was a single line of text:
“From here on, it is for you to write.”
A lump formed in Koyoi's throat. "...Shiori-san."
The name he whispered did not vanish into the mist. It remained there, held fast within the notebook.
Kuon let out a soft breath. "The furthest reach of a record isn't a cliff. It’s the place where the brush is passed on."
Asahi nodded. "If it’s been handed to you, then write."
Koyoi closed the notebook and held it to his chest. The furthest reaches were terrifying. But the fact that he stood there now was proof that he had made it this far.
At the edge of Shiori’s records, there were no words forcing a continuation upon him. Instead, there were words that believed in what came next.
"I... I can't put it into words well yet," Koyoi said softly.
Without looking up, Kuon pointed to the blank space in the notebook. "If you can't find the words, leave them in the form of the notebook. If you don't give them a voice, they are harder to steal."
Asahi’s lips curled into a smirk. "If you’re going to leave a mark, do it with your feet. The blank space follows the one who keeps moving forward."
Koyoi tucked the notebook away beside the pouch. The two sources of warmth overlapped, bringing a faint heat to his waist.
The screech of grinding iron echoed in the distance. The sound was brief, yet it lingered—proof that a train was still running somewhere.
Asahi stood up first and looked toward the north. The air behind them felt thin. Before they lost the chance to return, they had to at least decide which way to go.
Koyoi thought back to the blankness in the notebook. To that final indentation Shiori had left. Beneath that single line, there was still so much white space.
The void was frightening.
But being a blank slate also meant that nothing had been stolen yet.
The three of them stood and began to walk deeper into the canyon. In the pack on his back, the blank pages of the notebook swayed in silence.