It was mud.
The ground of Hoshino was yielding to the morning sun. The frozen surface had melted, exposing the black earth beneath. Koyoi stood at the inn’s threshold, gazing out at the scene. It wasn’t sand, nor was it rock. It was soil heavy with water—the kind of ground that would sigh and swallow a footstep.
Across the street, shadows stirred.
“...Kuon, look.”
“I see them.”
Kuon was leaning against a pillar of the inn, the Chronicle spread across his knees. His artificial eye pulsed with a faint, azure light.
The shadow-folk were gathering upon the mud.
Most of the residents remaining in Hoshino were already losing their outlines. Some had lost half their names; others had surrendered their voices; some were becoming translucent in parts of their bodies. Even so, they lined up in a circle on the mud and began to stomp their feet.
There was no sound.
Koyoi’s ears could not catch the rhythm of feet striking the earth, though they clearly were. The shadow-folk moved with purpose—splashing mud, swinging arms, spinning their bodies. But the sound was missing, as if it had been carved out of the world.
“It is a festival.”
The innkeeper spoke from behind them. The old woman’s voice was raspy, yet it possessed a firm core.
“They dance on the days the earth softens. It has always been so. Back when they had names, and even now, when they don’t.”
“But I can’t hear anything,” Koyoi said.
“Their sounds were taken along with their voices. But their feet remained. As long as they have feet, they can dance.”
With that, the old woman retreated into the depths of the inn.
Koyoi took a step out from the doorway. The mud shifted slickly beneath his boots. The sensation sent a tremor deep into his chest. His drawstring pouch gave a faint hum—a low, distant vibration on the very edge of hearing.
Asahi remained leaned against the inn wall, arms crossed, watching.
“Are you going?”
“I am.”
Koyoi kicked off his boots.
The moment his bare feet touched the mud, a wave of warmth rose through his soles. The surface mud should have been cold, yet just an inch deep, there was a certain heat. It was the temperature of something living deep within the earth. A heat rising from the layers beneath the sprawling roots of Hoshino’s trees.
Koyoi stepped into the circle of shadow-folk.
No one seemed surprised. Translucent faces turned toward him, neither rejecting nor welcoming him. The circle simply widened slightly, leaving a gap for one more person.
Koyoi stamped his foot.
The mud splashed. His pouch vibrated. This time, there was a sound—a small one. Only Koyoi’s feet made noise as they struck the earth. Into the silent dance of the shadows, a single, wet rhythm was woven.
That was all it was. Yet, one of the shadows smiled, the gesture formed only by the shape of their mouth.
Kuon kept the Chronicle open, recording the scene. He didn't use words, but lines—tracing the trajectories of the shadow-folk’s feet as a series of connecting circles and arcs. The blue light of his eye flickered at steady intervals.
“Are you logging this?” Asahi asked.
“I am preserving the form. Even without sound, the form exists. That is the work of the Chronicle.”
Kuon’s brush did not stop. At the edge of the page, he noted the date, adding the temperature and humidity. The color of the mud, the depth of the shadows, the tempo of the dance. To Kuon, the festival was a phenomenon to be observed. Koyoi knew this wasn't coldness; it was his own way of showing respect.
As he danced in the mud, Koyoi looked toward Asahi.
He hadn't moved from the wall. Arms crossed, one foot propped up against the wood, his face remained unreadable as he watched the circle.
A long time passed.
Just as the dance of the shadow-folk began to slow and the circle started to break, Asahi pushed himself off the wall. He took three steps. He stopped just before the mud.
Koyoi watched him. Kuon stopped his brush and watched him.
Asahi lifted his right foot and, just once, stomped hard into the mud.
A loud, wet splat echoed out. Mud flew through the air, staining Asahi’s shins.
“Participated.”
Leaving only that word behind, Asahi turned on his heel. He returned to the wall and crossed his arms again. That was it.
But the circle of shadow-folk wavered for a moment. They swayed their bodies in the silence. Koyoi thought they were laughing.
Inside his pouch, the Divine Drops pulsed slowly, as if responding to the heat of the mud.
Kuon added a single line to the Chronicle.
“...What did you write?”
“The facts. ‘Asahi participated. One step. End of entry.’”
Koyoi laughed, his feet caked in mud. The sky over Hoshino was a color he had never seen on the desert roads. The clouds were white. He hadn't realized that simple, white clouds could be so beautiful.
The Festival of Mud ended quietly before the sun began to set. One by one, the shadow-folk left the circle and vanished into the backstreets. Only footprints remained in the mud, and the evening breeze began to slowly level them out.
Koyoi washed his feet and put his boots back on. The warmth of the mud still lingered on his soles. The temperature of something alive, deep beneath the ground.
“I wonder if they’ll dance tomorrow, too.”
“Who knows,” Asahi replied, his voice devoid of its usual thorns. “But the mud will still be soft tomorrow, won't it?”