I used to think waves were something that came from the sea.
But the waves at the port of the Chart rose from cracks in the earth. At the edge of the cobblestones, at the bottom of the mist.
What lay there was not a surface of water, but a shimmering, film-like tremor. When touched, it wasn’t one's fingers that sank, but the text itself.
Koyoi knelt and pressed his fingertips against the membrane. It was cold. But it wasn't the coldness of water. It was the specific chill of forcing unreadable prose into one’s mouth.
Beyond the film, a bubble burst. The white froth didn’t vanish immediately; it formed into short words before scattering once more. Even though he couldn't read them, their mere meaning snagged against his heart.
"...It’s an entrance."
Kuon spoke in a low voice.
"To what?"
"To the waves. No... to the 'underside of the records.' Beyond this point, it isn't the sea. It's the back of the ledger, masquerading as an ocean."
The blue glow of his prosthetic eye fell upon the membrane, and for a fleeting moment, fine lines raced across the surface. The lines soon crumbled, returning to the rhythmic swaying of the waves.
Asahi gave the film a light kick with the toe of his boot. Instead of tearing, the membrane reached out and claimed nothing but the shadow of his ankle.
The shadow was stretched thin, pulled away into the distance with the same rhythm as the swaying waves.
"...It took it," Koyoi whispered.
Asahi laughed.
"If it’s just a shadow, fine. Before they can take our lives, we’ll take something from them first."
With the tip of his scabbard, Asahi traced a small circle upon the film. For a single heartbeat, the waves ceased. Only the spot he had marked sank into a dark depression, like the outline of a doorway.
Koyoi pressed his drawstring bag to his chest. The Shizuku—the droplet—was pulsing, as if straining toward the other side of the membrane.
"...It's alright. Let’s go."
Koyoi spoke as if to convince himself.
The entrance waited with its mouth agape—not to devour them, but to grant them passage.
As the three of them stepped forward, the membrane did not turn to water. Instead, the characters shattered beneath their footsteps, reassembling themselves into the shape of waves.
Koyoi felt a chill at his ankles. Before the cold could reach his bones, the warmth of the Shizuku thrummed against his chest.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the air changed.
It wasn’t that the humidity had increased. The weight had shifted. The very air was heavy with the presence of scripts. With every breath, he felt as if unreadable words were entering his lungs.
Kuon came to a halt.
"From here on, names flow like water. They rise and fall with the tide."
"Names?"
"Duplicates of names written in manuscripts are drifting through this sea. When the tide is high, the names wash up on land; when it recedes, they return to the sea. The names that wash up descend briefly to the surface world, but they are soon pulled back again."
Koyoi looked at his feet. The ground beyond the entrance was covered in a thin layer of liquid. Not water—a film of light. Every time he walked, characters flickered into existence in the shape of his footprints before vanishing.
"Is the tide coming in or going out?" Asahi asked.
Kuon held his hand over the surface. The light from his prosthetic eye scanned the depths beneath the film.
"It’s beginning to recede. In another hour, every name here will have returned to the sea. If we’re going to call them, now is the time—but—"
"—If we call them, we’ll reveal our position to the Observers."
Koyoi finished Kuon’s sentence for him. It was a warning he had heard many times before.
Kuon gave a small nod.
"We won't call them here. We’ll simply record the direction of the flow. We need to see where the names are being pulled. There is a place where all names gather at the end of that path."
He began adding lines to the Chart in the ledger. Following the tidal current, he marked the movement of the names with arrows. To the northeast. Every arrow pointed in the same direction.
Koyoi crouched down and placed his finger on the thin film.
It was cold as water, and it flowed like water. But the moment he touched it, a fragment of a name lingered on his fingertip. He couldn't read it, but there was a warmth to it. This name was still alive.
"...I'm sorry. I can't call you yet," Koyoi murmured softly.
His voice was swallowed by the membrane, turning into the shape of a wave and flowing away toward the northeast.
Asahi looked up at the sky.
"I can smell the salt. This is where the real work begins."
The three of them stood up and began to walk, following the current of the tide.
Names were flowing beneath their feet. They couldn't be given voice. But they could still head toward the place at the end of the flow.
For those who cross an entrance, there is always an exit.
His only reason for believing that was the warmth of the bag in his hand. For Koyoi, that was enough.