The seats bore names.
Koyoi was the first to notice, tucked away on the inner side of the armrest. He had sat down, rested his arms, and happened to glance down. There, etched into the wood of the armrest, were tiny characters.
The script was ancient—the same style he had seen carved into the stone pillars of the scripture library. It wasn't weathered by time; instead, it was meticulously engraved, as if dissolving into the natural grain of the wood.
"…A name?"
Koyoi traced it with his finger. Three characters. He couldn’t read them; they were too old. But there was no mistaking that they were words.
His drawstring pouch grew warm. A slender thread of heat pulsed between his hand, still resting on the letters, and the pouch tied at his waist. The Drop was responding. It recognized this name.
"Asahi-san, you have one too."
Koyoi looked at his companion. Asahi was sitting in the aisle seat, inspecting his own armrest.
There was a carving there, too. A different name, four characters long. It was written in the same archaic hand, illegible to them.
"Never heard of 'em," Asahi muttered, tracing the grooves with his thumb. The etchings were deep enough for his nail to catch. The marks didn't look like they were made by a blade, but rather by the tip of something very hard.
Kuon sat in the seat facing them.
With his catalog still resting on his knees, he stared down at his own armrest. The azure glow of his artificial eye illuminated the wood grain. The light licked across the surface like a tongue before finally coming to a halt.
Kuon’s expression shifted.
"There’s nothing."
"What?"
"No name. My seat is the only one that's blank."
Koyoi leaned forward to look at Kuon’s armrest. Sure enough, there was nothing carved there. Only the natural lines of the wood ran across the surface, smooth and unmarred. While the other two seats bore inscriptions, Kuon’s was nameless.
Kuon intensified the blue light of his artificial eye, shining it as if to peer through the wood itself. The light penetrated deep into the grain, but nothing emerged.
"There are no traces of an engraving. No signs of it being sanded down, either. From the very beginning, nothing was ever written here."
Koyoi stood up.
He peered at the seat across the aisle. On the inner armrest, there was a name: two characters. He checked the next seat. Another name: five characters. The one after that, and the one after that.
Koyoi began to walk down the aisle.
He checked every row, row by row. The window seats, the aisle seats. Every single armrest had a name carved into it. No two names were the same. The script was ancient and unreadable, but the lengths and shapes varied wildly—from single characters to strings of seven.
He walked to the very end of the car. Twenty-four seats. Every single one bore a name.
He pushed open the door to the next car, stepping across the metal plates of the coupling. The seats in the second car had names as well. After checking just three, he turned back.
"They're in every seat," he said, his breath a little ragged. "Every single seat on this train has a name carved into it."
Kuon remained still, his palm resting on his blank armrest.
"These are the names of those who once sat here."
The azure light of his artificial eye flickered—not from analysis, but with the tremor of emotion.
"Before the Freezing, back when the gods still traveled freely through this world. These are the names of the gods who boarded this train to go… somewhere. The seats remember their passengers."
Asahi watched the mist drift past the window, his thumb still tracing the carving on his chair. The train pressed on. The rhythmic thrum of wheels against rails traveled up through the floorboards and into the soles of his boots.
"So, they're headstones?"
Asahi’s voice wasn't grim; he was simply seeking confirmation.
"Not headstones. A record," Kuon replied. "Headstones are for the dead. This is… proof of presence. They sat in these seats, looked out the windows, and tried to go somewhere. That fact alone remains within the wood."
Koyoi returned to his seat. He touched the name on his armrest once more. The pouch grew warm in response. The Drop recognized this name. It remembered the god who had sat here.
"This person…" Koyoi whispered. "I wonder where they wanted to go."
The train swayed. For a fleeting second, the mist outside the window thinned. Through the gap, something became visible.
Stone steps.
A flight of stone stairs stretched upward into the fog. They were wide, and every single step was carpeted in thick moss. He couldn't tell how far they went. After about ten steps, they were swallowed by the white once more.
"Did you see that?" Asahi leaned toward the glass.
Koyoi pressed his forehead against the window, but the view was gone. The mist had closed in again. But he had seen it. Stone steps. A path leading upward.
Kuon didn't look out the window. Instead, he kept his hand on the blank armrest and closed his eyes. Only the blue pulse of his eye throbbed quietly beneath his thin eyelid.
"The reason my seat has no name is because no one has sat here yet," Kuon said, his eyes still closed. "This seat is being kept open for the one who is about to sit in it."
The whistle blew.
Long and low. The train's speed began to drop. The flow of mist outside the window slowed.
Koyoi placed his palm over the name on the armrest. The warmth of the wood, the texture of the carving, and the heat of the Drop all mingled together, becoming one in his hand.
"We're arriving."
Koyoi stood up and gripped his pouch. The fourth ticket—the return trip—fluttered slightly where it was tucked into the drawstring.
Asahi shifted his sword back onto his shoulder. He glanced out the window, committing the direction of the disappearing stone steps to memory.
Kuon took his hand off the blank armrest and tucked his catalog into his robe. Just before standing, he gave the surface of the wood one last stroke—as if confirming the place where, someday, someone’s name would be carved.
The train came to a halt.
The sound of the doors opening echoed through the car. Mist flooded inside. It wasn't cold; it was damp, smelling of stone and moss.
The three of them stood and headed for the door.
Koyoi turned back one last time. He looked at the illegible name carved into the seat he had just occupied. The seat where a god had once sat, looked out at the world, and tried to reach a destination.
The seat where Koyoi sat now.
A journey to find a name, carrying a nameless ticket, while sitting in a seat that already had one.
Beyond the mist, the stone steps were waiting.