The scent of the tide had changed.
It wasn’t salt anymore. It was paper, iron, and—ink.
Koyoi came to a halt, focusing on the scent that pricked the back of his nose. Carried by the sea breeze, it possessed the same chill he had encountered at the well in the Scripture House. It was the same smell that had clung to his fingertips when he peeled back the pages of the frozen catalogue. That very scent had reached all the way here.
"It’s not salt," Asahi muttered, looking down at his feet.
The beach, where the waves had receded, was stained black. Usually, the retreating water left white streaks of salt, but here, the lines were as dark as sumi ink.
Kuon narrowed the blue glow of his prosthetic eye and leaned toward the sand.
"It’s ink. The remnants of records that flowed from the Scripture House well have traveled through the underground veins to reach this place."
Asahi stood at the water’s edge, tracing a black line with the toe of his boot. "Is the ocean itself this color?"
"It’s not the ocean," Kuon replied. "The tide is simply carrying the ink. Shards of names—fragments that never even coalesced into letters, dissolved and swept away by the water."
Kuon opened the catalogue, comparing the lines on the nautical chart with the black streaks on the shore. The paths of the underground veins drawn on the map aligned perfectly with the patterns of the stains on the beach.
Koyoi knelt and touched the sand. His fingertips stained black. It was cold, but not like the chill of a water droplet. This was a temperatureless cold—the hollow sensation of something that had lost its meaning.
"Did the names... break and turn into this?"
"They didn't break."
Kuon shook his head. "When the names were released from the well, there were shards that couldn't take flight. Shards that lacked the strength to cross the sky and fell into the depths instead. They rode the currents and washed up here."
A wave rolled in. The black water washed over the sand and receded again. With every repetition, the black streaks on the shore grew slightly darker.
Koyoi listened to the sound of the waves. Beneath the roar of the surf, there was a faint noise. A dry, rustling sound like paper, as if letters were scraping against each other.
"I can hear it."
"Hear what?"
"The sound of paper. Inside the waves, there’s a sound like paper rustling."
Kuon tilted his head, his prosthetic eye flickering with a blue light. "...Indeed. It’s the echo of records. Even though they’ve lost the shape of letters, the sound remains."
Asahi took three steps back from the black shoreline, standing on the dry sand. "Disgusting sea."
"I told you, it’s not the sea."
"If it’s wearing the face of the sea as it flows in, it’s the sea, isn't it?"
Asahi’s voice was gruff, but his eyes were scanning the beach with focused attention.
Koyoi was carefully watching the sand where the waves had pulled back. Something was glinting amidst the black streaks—something tiny that threatened to sink beneath the sand every time a wave washed over it.
He reached out. The moment his fingers touched it, the droplet inside his pouch leaped.
It was a shell.
A white seashell, no larger than a thumbnail. Its surface was polished smooth by the tide, but something was engraved on the inside. Koyoi held the shell up to the light.
Letters.
A single line of delicate script was carved along the spiral of the shell. His eyes slipped when he tried to read it; he could see the characters, but the meaning remained just out of reach.
"Kuon."
Kuon took the shell from him. He shone the light of his prosthetic eye upon it. As the blue glow illuminated the interior, the letters surfaced for a fleeting moment.
"...It’s a Name."
Kuon’s voice grew low. "An entire deity’s Name is carved into this shell. It must have been swept away by the water and found sanctuary inside."
"Is it alive?"
"I don't know. But the shape of the letters hasn't crumbled. It remains in a readable state."
Koyoi cupped the shell in both hands. It wasn't warm. But, in sync with the pulsing rhythm of the droplet in his pouch, the surface of the shell vibrated faintly.
"Does this little one... want to go home?" he murmured to no one in particular.
A wave rolled in. The black, inky tide soaked the tips of Koyoi’s shoes. He felt as though the rustling paper-sound within the surf grew just a fraction sharper.
Asahi looked up at the sky. A thin light was piercing through the gaps in the overcast clouds.
"Take it with you. If you leave it here, it’ll sink with the next tide."
Koyoi tied the shell to the drawstring of his pouch, placing the new Name beside the droplet.
Through the fabric, two pulses overlapped. The warmth of the droplet and the tremor of the shell. Both were small, both seemed on the verge of vanishing, yet they were both undeniably here.
The black tide receded. The streaks left on the shore caught the evening light, gleaming with a dull luster.
The three of them left the beach. The scent of the tide followed at their backs. The smell of ink and iron—Koyoi didn't try to shake it off as he walked.
Beyond this scent, there might be more names waiting to be gathered.