The Hoshino Stop was roofless.
It consisted of nothing more than four stone pillars. Boards had been laid between them to serve as benches. With no walls and no ceiling, the pillars and planks sat solitary by the side of the tracks.
“It’s less of a station and more of a landmark,” Asahi remarked, eyeing one of the pillars.
Two characters were carved into the stone: Hoshino.
That was all.
Koyoi looked up. The mist was thin here. In the southern towns, looking up revealed nothing but a heavy shroud of gray, but here, a dark sky peered through the haze. It wasn't entirely clear, but he could tell the sky was there.
And from it, light was falling.
More light than in Hoshifuri Town. One, two, three—tiny grains of radiance poured incessantly from the heavens.
“It is a rain of names,” Kuon said, tilting his head back toward the sky. “Names that can no longer maintain their frozen state are spilling over in droves. Apparently, this is a daily occurrence here.”
The light vanished the moment it touched the ground. Yet, just before flickering out, it left behind a faint trace of warmth. When the light hit the dirt instead of the cobblestones, it warmed the earth for a fleeting second before disappearing.
Koyoi stepped away from the stop. The ground felt different beneath his feet. There were no cobblestones here—only earth. A path of hard-packed soil stretched northward, hugging the narrow tracks. Silver-gray trees were scattered along both sides of the road. They were leafless, but their trunks were thick and their roots ran deep. He could tell they had been anchored to this land for a very long time.
“There are few buildings,” Kuon noted, surveying the area.
To the left of the path stood three small stone houses, but otherwise, the landscape was empty. The southern towns were bustling with merchants and inns, but here, there was nothing.
“No people, either,” Asahi added.
“There were once. There are houses, after all. But now they are empty.” Asahi peered into the entrance of one of the dwellings. It had no door, and the interior was dark. The floor was pounded earth, with a simple hearth tucked into the corner. Faint traces of soot remained, but it had been a long time since a fire had burned there.
“On the frontiers of the World’s Logic, it is difficult for people to remain settled,” Kuon said quietly. “The foundations of existence are unstable. Buildings vanish. Roads disappear. Perhaps those who lived here simply faded away one day.”
The light of names fell again. One grazed Koyoi’s shoulder before hitting the ground and vanishing. Just before it winked out, the light seemed to take a faint shape—like a single stroke of a character.
The pouch at his side pulsed violently.
Koyoi stopped in his path and whispered to the pouch. “Can you recognize their names?”
Shizuku did not answer, but the pulsing quickened, as if reacting to one of the falling lights.
“You have so many friends here, don't you?” Koyoi’s voice grew small.
So many names were falling and vanishing like this every day, unable to even cry out for help. They flashed for a single moment and disappeared without ever being touched by anyone.
Asahi placed a hand on his shoulder. His hand was heavy, but it was warm.
“Don’t cry. They haven't vanished yet. They’re just falling. You came here to pick them up, didn't you?”
Koyoi nodded. He didn't wipe away his tears. If he had time to wipe them, he had time to look forward.
The path continued north. The dirt road stretched straight through the silver-gray trees. The light of names continued to fall, as if illuminating the way.
Suddenly, Kuon stopped. The hands holding his Catalog trembled slightly.
“...It opened.”
Koyoi and Asahi turned back. Even though there was no wind, the pages of Kuon’s Catalog were flipping. Deep within the pages marked by gold—a single, previously sealed page unfurled as if the threads of the binding had unraveled themselves.
“The Eightfold Theorem. The final one... the seal has broken.”
Kuon narrowed his artificial eye, reading the newly revealed page. There was only a single line written there:
Names do not die when frozen. Once thawed, they walk again.
Asahi gave a short, dry laugh. “Simple enough, isn't it?”
“Because it is simple, no one ever bothered to prove it,” Kuon replied, closing the Catalog.
Koyoi pulled the pouch close to his chest. Inside, Shizuku gave a single, steady pulse.
The theorem was waiting for its proof. And somewhere further down this path, that proof existed.