Inside the train, Koyoi spread the manuscript across his lap.
It was a stack of papers he had carried out from the Scripture Hall. Even as they had fled through the crumbling wreckage of the collapse, he hadn't let go of a single sheet. The corners of the paper were slightly creased and dusted with a thin layer of grit, but every character remained perfectly legible.
Kuon used his artificial eye to illuminate the pages. Under the pale blue glow, the golden script shimmered into sharp relief.
“The Manuscript of Restored Names,” he read. “A record of the gods who were culled. Thirty-seven deities in all.”
Koyoi turned the pages one by one. For every deity, a name and a memory were recorded.
The places they had loved. The things they were gifted at. The last words they had ever spoken.
On the seventh page, the pouch at his waist jumped. It literally leapt, tugging at the cord tied to his hip. Inside, Shizuku was thrashing about with sudden intensity.
Koyoi looked down at the page. A name was written there. And beside that name, a single, small word—
Brother.
“Kuon,” Koyoi’s voice trembled. “Read it.”
Kuon took the page from him, his artificial eye scanning the characters.
“Name: Guardian of Shizuku. Role: Caretaker of the lesser rain deities. Reason for Culling: Deemed redundant due to the existence of a superior successor.”
Kuon moved to the next line.
“Memory: Was with Shizuku from the moment of birth. When Shizuku cried, the sky grew overcast. When Shizuku laughed, a rainbow appeared. The last words spoken to Shizuku were—”
Kuon’s voice caught in his throat.
“‘Stay here. I’ll go on ahead and blaze a trail for you.’”
The pouch grew hot. Through the fabric, light began to spill out. Shizuku was pulsing with everything it had.
It remembers. It remembers these words. The last thing its brother ever said.
Koyoi cupped the pouch in both hands. It was burning—as hot as fresh tears.
“I didn't know,” Koyoi whispered, his voice faint. “I didn't know this little one had a brother.”
Asahi remained silent by the window for a long time. Finally, he spoke.
“Is that guy… still out there somewhere?”
Kuon read from the margin of the page. A note from the First God had been added in tiny script.
“‘I was able to strike this child’s name from the ledger of the culled. However, I do not know where one goes after being erased. Whether he was cast outside the laws of the world, or scattered as the dust of information, even I cannot say. Yet, I leave this record. We must not forget that he existed. These children were not rejected; they were erased before they could even be chosen.’”
Koyoi’s tears fell onto the manuscript. The paper repelled them; the tears formed perfect, round beads that rolled across the surface without soaking in.
“The ink is special,” Kuon observed, studying the paper. “Something was mixed into it so it wouldn't smudge. The First God anticipated that this manuscript would be read through a veil of tears.”
Koyoi didn't wipe them away. The droplets on the page caught the light from the pouch, shimmering like tiny jewels. With every sway of the train, the beads rolled across the paper.
Unerasable tears rolling over unerasable words.
Inside the pouch, Shizuku was still trembling. From the moment the brother’s name had been read, the shaking hadn't stopped.
Koyoi closed the manuscript with care and pressed it to his chest. Beyond the walls of the world, there were names yet to be found. Somewhere, there was a trail that Shizuku’s brother must have walked.
Outside the train window, the mist glowed faintly. The scent of the sea was beginning to mingle with the air.