Kuon read the catalogue in silence. A pale blue light flickered across the pages.
“...Look at this. This is the ‘redefinition’ of records. Before we can even begin to decipher the truth, they’re physically ‘bleaching’ the very laws of this world. They're trying to make it so it never even existed.”
Kuon pressed his lips thin, then spoke again.
“...Bleaching? Does that mean the names of those children will all just... turn white? Fade away?”
Koyoi’s voice trembled.
“...Tonight is far from over,” Asahi declared, his feet planted firmly on the ground. “Not until we drag the true ‘answer’ to the Law out from that single point.”
“About where Shiori is...” Koyoi said softly. “I still can’t quite put it into words.”
Kuon remained silent, tracing only the outline of the path with his finger.
“If you can’t find the words, leave it as a form. If you don't give it a voice, it’s harder for them to steal it.”
Asahi let out a short breath.
“If you're going to leave something behind, do it with your back. Silence follows the one who keeps moving forward.”
The three of them pressed on through the fog. Their pace quickened the moment Shiori’s name was mentioned. It wasn't because of the word itself; it was because the moment it was spoken, the very temperature of the air had shifted.
Kuon came to a halt.
“...Wait.”
The blue glow of his prosthetic eye illuminated the lower reaches of the mist. Near the ground—at the edge of the cobblestones—something was carved.
Koyoi knelt down. There were thin lines on the surface of the stone. Shallow grooves, like something scratched by a fingernail. They weren't letters. Rather, they were something that existed just before a letter is formed.
“This is...”
Kuon narrowed his eyes.
“It’s a quirk of handwriting. A hesitation before the first stroke. The traces of that wavering remain.”
“A line of hesitation?”
“The mark of starting to write and then stopping. Even in her doubt, she’s indicating a direction. ...It's pointing North.”
Asahi looked further down the cobblestone path. Five paces away, there was another similar line. And another beyond that. A dotted trail leading into the fog.
“A breadcrumb trail,” Asahi muttered.
Kuon crouched down and traced one of the lines with his finger. The light in his eye pulsed brighter for a moment.
“The way these lines are drawn... it’s in the catalogue. It’s the same habit as Shiori’s handwriting. Pulling the first stroke toward the upper right and then back. It’s a specific manual quirk typical of those trained in calligraphy.”
Koyoi’s chest tightened.
“Shiori... she passed through here?”
Kuon didn't answer. Instead, he shifted his gaze, searching for the next mark.
The lines grew fainter in the fog. Time must have passed since they were carved. The first few had been clear, but as they headed North, they became nothing more than ghostly impressions on the stone.
“They’re disappearing,” Koyoi whispered.
“There’s no need to rush,” Kuon said quietly. “Fading lines remain only for those meant to read them. If we rush, we’ll miss them.”
Asahi stepped forward. His hand rested on the hilt of his greatsword as he glared into the depths of the mist.
“I won't miss a thing. My eyes see the faint things best.”
The three followed the trail. The fingernail marks continued like a series of staccato beats upon the cobblestones. Words that never became letters. Directions that never became voices. Yet, they pointed unmistakably North.
Koyoi gripped his drawstring pouch. The droplet inside felt warm, almost as if it recognized these lines.
“I think she did it on purpose,” Koyoi said.
“On purpose?”
“Shiori left her quirks behind instead of words. Letters can be bleached. But quirks—the hesitation in a hand—hold no meaning. The Law won't pick them up.”
Kuon stopped. He opened the catalogue and checked the entry for Shiori. The light from his eye wavered over the page.
“...A clever girl,” Kuon murmured. It wasn't an analysis; it was an emotion.
Asahi began to walk again.
“Let’s go. We’ll catch up before the lines vanish.”
The final mark was at the very bottom of the fog. It was carved deeper than the others. She hadn't used a fingernail this time, but a shard of stone. The marks bore the weight of her effort.
The line pointed North, and then it stopped.
Beyond it lay only the fog.
Koyoi placed his finger on the end of the broken line. The stone was cold to the touch. Yet, beneath it, he felt as if a faint warmth still lingered.
“...Wait for us,” Koyoi whispered, then stood up.
The three of them stepped past the end of the line, moving forward into the heart of the mist.