There was a room hidden between the walls.
The corridor had suddenly widened, opening into a space about the size of six tatami mats. The ceiling, too, reached higher here.
It was a chamber carved directly into the rock, the walls still bearing the raw marks of a chisel. Kuon used his prosthetic eye to illuminate the interior. On the floor lay a brush, an inkwell, and a stack of blank paper. Against the wall, finished sheets were piled in meticulous layers.
There were more than ten such stacks.
“It’s a workshop.”
Kuon knelt and picked up the top sheet of paper. A name was written there. In an ancient script, the name of a single deity had been recorded with great care. Beneath the name, something else had been added in smaller characters.
Kuon read it aloud.
“‘—Their favorite place was at the foot of the ancient cherry tree on the western hills. The last time they laughed was the day of the Shimozato festival. The one they made a promise to was a small god who draped themselves in the wind.’”
“What is this?”
Koyoi knelt down beside Kuon.
“It is a restoration of names. Someone is rewriting the names of the gods who were culled. But it’s not just their names. One by one, their memories are being added alongside them.”
Kuon picked up another sheet.
A different name.
A different memory.
“‘—Their specialty was summoning rain clouds. Their weakness was remembering the names of humans. Their favorite phrase was: Let’s leave it for tomorrow.’”
Then another.
“‘—Their birthplace was the cape south of the town of Kaizu. Their most precious treasure was a flute made of seashells. The last person they met was—’”
Kuon’s voice trailed off.
“‘The last person they met was a child carrying a drawstring pouch.’”
Koyoi’s hands began to tremble.
“A child with a drawstring pouch… you mean…”
“This god met you once, Koyoi. Before they were culled. You simply don’t remember.”
Koyoi reached for the stacks of paper, turning them over one by one.
Every single page contained a name and a memory. Each deity, accounted for.
It was done with such care. The size of the names, the length of the memories—everything was perfectly consistent. The First God had remembered every one of these deities. Even after they were erased, he had not forgotten. He had come here to exhume them from his own mind, one by one, and set them down on paper.
The Shizuku inside his pouch was vibrating softly. It wasn't a pulse.
It was a shiver.
Koyoi realized then—it was weeping.
Asahi was inspecting the back of the room. New characters had been carved into the wall.
“Kuon. Read this.”
Kuon approached the wall and shone his blue light upon the text.
“‘I may run out of time before I finish writing everything. But I must write. Someone must remember that these children existed. Even if I am the last one left.’”
The room fell into a heavy silence. The ink in the well was still damp. The bristles of the brush were stiff, held in the shape of recent use. Here, the First God had spent hundreds of years, alone, continuing to write these names.
Koyoi pulled one of the stacks of paper to his chest. The warmth of the paper seeped through his arms and into his heart. The shivering of the Shizuku and the warmth of the paper were the exact same temperature.
The tip of the brush trembled ever so slightly. Though there was no wind in the room and no hand touched it.
It was as if someone were still writing.
Clutching the papers, Koyoi stared at that trembling brush.
This person is still here. They haven't stopped writing.