Aboard the train, Koyoi unrolled the manuscript.
It was a collection of thirty-seven names brought from the Scripture Depository, joined by fourteen fragments scavenged from the market. Fifty-one in all.
The fifty-one names lay across Koyoi’s lap. The drawstring pouch at his side gave a steady throb. It was reacting to the seventh page of the manuscript—the leaf where the name of Shizuku’s brother was inscribed. That page alone felt warm to the touch.
“We’ll reach Hoshino soon.”
Kuon peered out the window. The mist was beginning to thin.
“We’re taking the manuscript into Hoshino. Remember when we laid it on the ground before and it began to glow? We are going back to that exact spot.”
“Will the names just... return, if we leave it there?” Koyoi asked.
Kuon opened the ledger. The lines he had traced at the harbor in the sea-chart pulsed upon the page.
“No. The manuscript alone isn’t enough. It is a record of names, not the names themselves. The names themselves are—”
Kuon pointed toward the window.
Threads of golden light were weaving through the mist.
“There. The names that escaped the ink-wells of the Scripture Depository are migrating back to where they once belonged. The manuscript will act as a vessel. We have to give them a place to land when they return.”
Asahi shifted his weight. “So, we just put the manuscript down and wait for them to come flying in?”
“Waiting isn’t enough,” Kuon said, pointing to a passage in the ledger. Words were surfacing there—the handwriting of the First God.
“A name cannot land if there is no one to call it. Names that have lost their coordinates within the ice return only when guided by a voice. Where there is no voice, they cannot descend.”
Koyoi looked down at the pouch. Shizuku was pulsing within.
“I’ll call them,” Koyoi said softly. “I will call every name written in the manuscript. One by one.”
Kuon turned to him. The blue light of his artificial eye flickered.
“It’s dangerous. To call a name is to offer up your own existence to that name. If you call all fifty-one... you will begin to fade.”
“I know.”
Koyoi’s voice did not waver.
“But if they aren’t called, they can’t come home, can they? These children.”
The pouch grew warm. The page for Shizuku’s brother glowed with a sudden, intense light.
Asahi remained silent, staring out at the passing landscape. After a long moment, he finally spoke.
“Hey. I’m calling too. I can’t read worth a damn, but I’ve got a voice.”
The train began to slow.
The mist parted, revealing the faint lights of the Hoshino station. The three of them stood, clutching the manuscript.
Outside the window, golden threads danced through the fog like needles sewing through silk. The names were waiting for a voice.
Koyoi pressed the pouch to his chest. Its warmth pulsed in perfect time with his own heartbeat. As the station lights drew closer, the air inside the carriage grew cold—yet at their feet, the floor was bathed in the soft, pale glow radiating from the manuscript.