The rows of stone pillars stretched deep into the darkness.
Koyoi came to a stop at one of them, marked with a set of double lines, having drifted a short distance away from the other three. Kuon and Asahi were busy examining different pillars nearby. They weren’t so far that his voice wouldn't reach them, but for the moment, Koyoi wanted to be alone.
The pouch at his waist gave a faint, rhythmic tremor.
It wasn't the pulse of the Shizuku—the Droplet. This was something weaker, a resonance responding to something far more distant. Koyoi knelt before the pillar and reached out toward the names carved into the stone. Over the ancient, weathered script, the First God had drawn double lines. The engravings were shallow and fine, looking as though they had been scratched there by a fingernail.
The moment his fingertips brushed the double lines, the bottom of his pouch grew warm.
Then, he heard a voice.
Calling it a "voice" felt too distinct. It was something too vague for that—a mere vibration in the air, a faint breath, a fragment of something that hadn't quite become a word. And yet, to Koyoi’s ears, it was unmistakable.
"Thank you."
It was brief. Five tiny characters. Just those few sounds were enough to make the stone feel as though its temperature had risen a fraction. Koyoi couldn't pull his fingers away. He felt that if he let go, the warmth would vanish forever.
"...I heard it."
Koyoi’s voice trembled. He wasn't speaking to anyone in particular; his lips moved only to confirm the reality to himself.
He moved to the next pillar. It, too, bore the double lines. He touched it the same way. The pouch pulsed in response.
This time, it was a different voice.
"Remember me."
Four characters. He couldn't tell who the voice belonged to—whether it was a man or a woman, young or old. All he knew, felt through the tips of his fingers, was that those four characters had been trapped inside the stone for hundreds of years. It wasn't cold. If anything, it was warm. A will that refused to be forgotten wrapped around his palm like the heat of a living body.
The third pillar.
He touched the double lines. The pouch glowed.
There was no voice this time.
Instead, a final moment that had never found its way into words was sealed within the stone. In place of a voice, there was only a lingering warmth. It felt like a hand squeezing his, or a soft touch against his cheek. A form of parting that required no language. A single tear fell from Koyoi’s eye. It shattered against the surface of the stone and trickled down, following the groove of the double lines.
"Koyoi."
It was Kuon’s voice—low and quiet.
Koyoi didn't turn around. He tried to wipe his eyes before facing him, but the tears wouldn't stop. He answered while still keeping his back to him.
"I can hear them, Kuon. In these stones... their last words are still there."
Kuon stepped up beside him.
The pale blue light from his artificial eye illuminated the pillar, carefully tracing the strokes of the double lines. The beam reached into the depths of the engravings, bringing to light the microscopic patterns etched deep within the stone.
"There is a timestamp within the restoration seal."
Kuon’s voice lacked its usual analytical coldness.
"The oldest is from eight hundred years ago. The most recent is from two hundred years ago. In the time between, they were restored one by one. Each separated by intervals of several decades."
Koyoi looked out over the rows of pillars. Those marked with double lines accounted for less than a third of the total. On the remaining pillars, the single horizontal strikes remained vivid—names that had been erased and never restored by anyone.
"One by one..."
"So as not to be noticed by the Observers. Starting from the least conspicuous places, in the least conspicuous order. Someone came here, rewrote a name, and left. They did this for hundreds of years. Alone."
Asahi walked over through the gaps between the pillars. His sword was still propped on his shoulder as he stared at the pillars without double lines. He silently counted the overwhelming number of them.
"So he couldn't hear them all?"
Asahi’s voice was low and strained.
Kuon didn't answer immediately.
The blue light of his artificial eye scanned another restoration seal, reading the time left there. He moved to another pillar, and then another, repeating the process for three, then four. As he continued the same mechanical motion, his lips trembled slightly.
"He heard them," Kuon said. "All of them."
A heavy silence fell over them.
"He heard them all, but he couldn't write them all. It wasn't that he ran out of time. He could only write them one by one. He had to steal moments away from the Observers' eyes, once every few decades. He would come here, restore a single name, and leave again—knowing full well it would be decades before he could return."
Asahi struck one of the pillars with his fist. It wasn't a hard blow; it was closer to simply resting his hand there with force. But his fist remained pressed against the stone, refusing to let go.
"He heard them, but he couldn't write them. That kind of time... it went on for hundreds of years?"
Kuon nodded. He didn't open his ledger. There was no need to record this; the place itself was already the record.
Koyoi returned to the first pillar—the stone that had said, "Thank you." When he touched it again, he heard nothing. It had been a voice granted only once. That final word, stored within the stone for centuries, had spent itself entirely the moment it found someone to listen.
"This person was speaking to the First God," Koyoi said, his voice still wavering. "They said 'Thank you.' When he came to rewrite their name... just before they were erased, they said it to him. Those were their last words."
Kuon looked down. The blue light of his eye dimmed, and the shadows of the pillars grew long and deep.
"It’s the same for 'Remember me.' The god being erased pleaded with the First God. They asked him to remember. And the First God did. Because he remembered, he kept coming back here for hundreds of years."
Asahi pulled his hand away from the pillar. He opened his fist and ran his palm over the surface of the stone. It was a rough hand, scarred and calloused from years of wielding a sword. That hand passed slowly over the name of an erased god.
"If I listen, I won't hear a thing, will I?"
"No. Without the pouch, you won't hear them. The Shizuku acts as the medium."
"Then, Koyoi. You have to listen to them all."
Koyoi looked up. Asahi was staring straight at him.
"Listen, and remember. Even if you can't do them all, remember as many as you touch. I can't do it. Kuon can't do it. You're the only one who can."
Koyoi gripped his pouch. The Shizuku gave a warm, responsive pulse.
The rows of stone pillars stretched deep into the darkness. He couldn't possibly touch them all. And yet, Koyoi walked to the next pillar. He pressed his fingers to the double lines.
A voice reached him.
"It's okay."
Just three characters. Those were that god's final words.
Koyoi nodded. He didn't wipe away his tears. He felt that if he did, he might stop being able to hear.
To the next pillar. And the one after that. One by one. Just as the First God had done, Koyoi began to touch them, one by one.