The station was small.
The wooden building, appearing suddenly out of the mist, was older and quieter than any stop Koyoi had ever seen. Moss blanketed the roof tiles, and the pillars had been weathered by wind and rain into a ghostly gray. In the spot where a sign should have been, only the rusted ghosts of nail marks remained.
The ticket office sat at the far right of the building.
There was only a single wooden window, devoid of glass. Behind that square opening sat a figure.
It was an old woman.
The wrinkles on her face were as deep as a map, carved by uncounted years. Her skin was as thin as washi paper, her veins visible beneath the surface. Her hands were like withered branches—knobby fingers resting upon the wooden counter. Her nails were yellowed and long, yet they were not untidy; they were the hands of an old tool that had been meticulously cared for.
Koyoi approached the window.
The old woman’s eyes moved. They were clouded; perhaps from advanced cataracts, for the color of her pupils was indistinguishable. Yet her gaze did not linger on Koyoi’s face; it passed right through him, stopping near his waist.
She was looking at the pouch.
"It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that bag," she said.
Her voice was raspy but possessed a core of strength—the dry, hard ring of a hand striking an ancient tree trunk.
Koyoi caught his breath. "Do you... know it?"
"Know it? Of course."
The old woman leaned her elbows on the counter and rested her chin in her hands.
"That bag has been around since the days I first started here. It’s just the child carrying it that’s changed."
Koyoi placed a hand over the pouch. The Shizuku was quiet, but its warmth had increased ever so slightly. It wasn’t trembling with fear; it was a temperature closer to nostalgia.
"Three tickets. North," Kuon’s voice came from behind. It was a clinical, businesslike tone. The blue light of his prosthetic eye was fixed on the old woman. But the moment that blue light touched her face, it flickered. The focus wouldn't hold. Kuon’s brow furrowed slightly.
The old woman gave Kuon only a brief glance before reaching under the counter.
Three tickets were lined up on the wood. They were crude things, hand-cut from thick cardboard with frayed edges and ink that bled into the fibers.
Koyoi picked one up. The space for the destination was blank.
"Um... it doesn't say where it's going."
"I don't write that."
The old woman narrowed her eyes. She might have been smiling, but her wrinkles were too deep to discern the change in expression.
"The passenger decides the destination. It’s not for me to say."
Koyoi turned the ticket over. The back was white, too. The paper's texture was coarse, as if it would swallow his fingerprints whole.
"The price?" Kuon asked. The blue light in his eye was still wavering.
"I don’t need any. A price has never been put on a ticket from this place."
After pushing the three tickets forward, the old woman placed one more on the counter. A fourth ticket.
"For the return trip."
Koyoi looked at the fourth one. It was the same rough cardboard, the same blank destination. The only difference was that its corners had been rounded off. It looked worn, as if it had been handled many times. And yet, it was supposed to be new.
"The return..."
"If you go, you should come back. It’s as simple as that."
There was no command in the old woman’s voice. Nor was there a plea. It was a flat statement, as if she were merely reciting a fundamental truth.
Asahi stood by the side of the window.
His hand remained on the hilt of his sword as he watched the woman. He wasn't exactly on guard; instead, he wore a strange expression—one of confusion, a rarity for him.
"You don't have a shadow," Asahi said, his voice low and steady.
The light from the lantern hit the counter. Koyoi had a shadow. Kuon had a shadow. The frame of the window had a shadow. But the old woman’s shadow was nowhere to be found.
The woman didn't seem bothered.
"A thing like a shadow... once you get to be my age, it tends to go on ahead without you."
Kuon increased the output of his prosthetic eye. The blue light intensified, illuminating the ticket window with enough brilliance to reveal every grain in the wood. But even as the light bathed the old woman, the eye returned no information. No name, no coordinates, no patterns of the Logic.
"I can't read her," Kuon muttered. He didn't sound panicked—only baffled.
"It’s not that you can’t read me," the old woman said. "There’s nothing written. Not from the start."
Koyoi held the four tickets in his hand. Three for the journey. One for the return. All their destinations were blank. All were free of charge.
"Um... who are you?"
The old woman settled back into the chair deep within the office. The wooden seat creaked.
"I’m nobody. Just an old woman sitting here."
"Since when?"
"Since before the Freeze."
Koyoi’s hand froze. Before the Freeze—that was hundreds of years ago.
The old woman rested her cheek in her hand and looked out past the mist. It was impossible to tell what she saw. Her clouded eyes seemed to be peering into a place deeper than the fog itself.
"This station used to be lively, you know. The gods would come, buy their tickets, and go off here and there. Some gods would fight in front of the window because they couldn't decide where to go; others would cry because they lost their tickets. It was a busy time."
The old woman’s voice softened just a fraction.
"Then, at some point, they stopped coming. One by one. Until there was no one left at the window. The tickets were left over. They've been left over for a long time."
Koyoi gripped the pouch. The Shizuku pulsed. Just once. Briefly.
"The little one in that bag used to come here often, too. Small and warm. Always with someone."
The warmth of the Shizuku grew stronger through the cloth. It remembers. It remembered this place, and it remembered this woman.
Asahi finally spoke. "Are you not a god?"
"I’m no god. I’m just a ticket seller."
"Does a mere human live for hundreds of years?"
"Who knows? I was just sitting here, and before I knew it, the time had passed."
The old woman laughed. This time, Koyoi could tell. Her wrinkles shifted, and her eyes crinkled. She had almost no teeth left, but her smile still held a shadow of the girl she once was.
Koyoi tucked the fourth ticket into the drawstring of his pouch. The return ticket. He placed the means to come home right beside the Shizuku.
"Thank you very much."
"No need for thanks. Just take care on your way."
As he moved away from the window, Koyoi looked back once. The old woman had straightened her back in the depths of the office, as if already waiting for the next passenger. A passenger who might never come. Just as she had done for centuries.
"An existence outside the observation of the Logic," Kuon said in a low voice. "Even the prosthetic eye can't read her. To not be under the management of the Logic means the Logic doesn't even recognize her existence."
Asahi looked back at the station over his shoulder. "So, you mean she's effectively been 'not here' from the very beginning? That old lady?"
"Someone who 'is not here' has been selling tickets for hundreds of years."
There was something in Kuon's voice that went beyond mere analysis.
Koyoi looked at the tickets in his hand. Tickets without a destination. Tickets without a price. Four slips of paper received from someone who wasn't supposed to exist.
Deep within the mist, a whistle blew.
The train was coming.