The train windows were fogged over. No matter how many times Koyoi wiped them with his sleeve, the condensation returned instantly. Either the temperature outside was plummeting, or the gap between the cabin and the world beyond was simply too vast.
“Koyoi. Look at your hand,” Kuon said, his voice dropping to a low murmur.
Koyoi looked down at his right hand. His fingertips had turned semi-transparent. Through them, he could see the faint grain of the wooden seat on the opposite side.
This was the price for calling the name back in Hoshino.
Calling just one spirit had thinned him this much. If he called all fifty-one, his body would vanish entirely.
“I knew,” Koyoi whispered, clenching his right hand.
He could still make a fist. The sensation was there. It was only the appearance that had faded.
“It’s not just appearances,” Kuon countered, opening his register.
A pale blue light spilled from the pages, illuminating Koyoi’s hand.
“The recording density of your name is dropping. Your existential data is depleting. If you call even one more, the laws of this world may flag you as ‘insufficient data.’”
“And if that happens?”
“You’ll be slated for culling.”
Silence fell, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks.
Finally, Asahi spoke up. “Hey, Kuon. When I called them, did I fade too?”
Kuon turned his prosthetic eye toward Asahi.
“...No. You remain unchanged.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps because you don’t offer up your own existence when you call them. Your voice... it’s less of a call and more of a command. You tell the names to ‘Return.’ Koyoi tells them ‘Come here.’ The nature of the offering is different.”
Asahi crossed his arms. “Then I’ll do the calling from now on. Koyoi, you just read the manuscript. Don’t make a sound.”
“But—”
“Just reading is enough. Find the names and tell them to me. I’ll be the one to call them. You just focus on preparing the vessel.”
Koyoi stared at his translucent right hand. Asahi’s suggestion made sense, but he had wanted this to be his task alone. He wanted to call their names with his own voice...
The drawstring bag at his side pulsed—warm and gentle. He felt as though Shizuku was saying something. There were no words, yet the meaning was clear.
It wasn’t a warning not to overexert himself. It was a reminder that he didn't have to do it alone.
Koyoi let out a long breath. “Okay. Asahi... please.”
Asahi gave a sharp, single nod.
Outside the window, a single thread of golden light raced alongside the train. It was the name that had returned at Hoshino, still drifting, unable to find a place to land. Together with that light, the train sped on through the mist.
Koyoi rested his translucent right hand on his lap and gripped the drawstring bag with his left. Warmth flowed slowly from his left palm to his right fingertips. Through his ghostly fingers, he watched the golden thread outside, flickering in and out of view.