As I walked along the beach at night, the sand began to glow.
It wasn’t a reflection of the moon. A faint light was seeping from beneath the surface. It didn’t flicker like a firefly; instead, it pulsed with a slow, rhythmic ebb and flow, as if the earth itself were breathing.
Koyoi came to a halt.
There wasn't just one light. From beneath his feet to several paces ahead, dots of light lay buried in the sand. Every one of them was the same warm amber, illuminating the surface as the glow leaked through the gaps between the grains.
"They are Names."
Kuon’s voice rumbled low. He unfurled a sea chart, the blue light from his artificial eye casting a cold glow over the parchment.
"There used to be a well on this beach. The coordinates are still on the map, but the well itself has been destroyed. Having lost their vessel, these Names had nowhere to go, so they sank into the sand."
Asahi crouched down to inspect the ground. The light sat about three fingers deep beneath the surface. When he hovered his hand over it, a faint warmth radiated through the sand.
"They’re alive," Asahi noted.
"Yeah. The Names haven't faded yet. But with no one to call them, they can't rise to the surface."
Koyoi knelt, pressing his hands against the sand. The grains felt coarse against his skin, but beneath them lay a soft, gentle heat. It felt remarkably like touching the Shizuku—the lingering body heat of a tiny god.
Inside his drawstring pouch, the Shizuku gave a small hop. As if responding to the light beneath the sand, its warmth grew stronger through the fabric.
"It’s the same," Koyoi whispered. "It feels just like the Shizuku."
"Naturally," Kuon replied. "Both are the embers of a Name. The only difference is that you were there to catch the Shizuku, while no one was here to catch the Names under this sand."
Kuon looked up from the sea chart and scanned the length of the beach. There were more than ten points of light. Each one pulsed quietly beneath the earth, illuminating the night shore like a mirror image of the starry sky above.
Koyoi began to dig with both hands.
His fingertips drew closer to the glow. The sand crumbled away easily, revealing the golden light. At the bottom of a palm-sized hollow lay a grain of light. It was smaller than a speck of sand, yet the radiance it emitted felt closer and more certain than the moon itself.
He touched it.
It was warm.
This wasn't a frozen record from the Great Library, nor was it the briny tide of ink. This was the temperature of the living—a heat that proved the Name had not yet given up.
The grain of light wavered on Koyoi’s fingertip. It tried to lift itself, but it lacked the strength. It trembled again and again, nearly sinking back into the sand.
"Call it," Asahi said. His voice was quiet.
Koyoi pulled out a bundle of manuscripts. He compared the light in the sand to the names written on the paper, searching for the one that matched this specific glow.
He peered over at the sea chart. Kuon used the light of his eye to verify the coordinates.
"It’s the third manuscript. The coordinates of the destroyed well match the position of this light."
Koyoi opened the third sheet. The name, written in deep black ink, fluttered in the night wind.
He prepared to speak.
Calling a Name was a frightening thing. He had learned this at the Library: every time you speak a Name, your own existence grows thinner. It is an act of carving away your own silhouette to pave a road for the Name to travel.
But looking at the light trembling beneath the sand, he couldn't let his fear stop him.
Koyoi took a breath and read the name written on the manuscript aloud.
His voice fell upon the beach.
For a heartbeat, the roar of the surf ceased. The sound of the receding waves and the whistling wind vanished, falling silent as if to make way for the Name.
The light in the sand leapt.
The grain on his fingertip shuddered and rose into the air. Leaving the sand behind, it floated to the level of Koyoi’s eyes and hovered there.
The paper of the manuscript fluttered as if drawn by a magnet. As the sheet trembled in Koyoi’s hand, the grain of light descended onto it.
The ink characters drank the light.
On the surface of the paper, the written name flashed gold for a fleeting second before returning to the color of black ink. However, the depth of the characters had changed. Whereas the ink had sat on the surface moments ago, it was now etched deep into the fibers of the paper.
The Name had taken root within the manuscript.
A dull numbness spread through Koyoi’s fingertips.
The price for using his voice arrived late. The numbness climbed from his fingers to his wrist, stopping just before his elbow. It was light—only a faint sensation this time. But if he kept doing this...
"Are you alright?" Kuon asked.
"Yeah. I’m okay for now."
Koyoi clenched and unclenched his hand. The numbness began to recede. It didn't disappear entirely, but he could move his arm.
He closed the manuscript. Within the paper, the Name radiated a settled, peaceful warmth.
He looked out over the beach. The remaining lights continued to blink here and there. Thirteen in total. With every name he called, Koyoi's own outline would grow fainter. If he called all thirteen...
"One is enough for tonight."
Kuon took the manuscript from him and tucked it back into the bundle.
"Don't be greedy. There’s a limit to how many you can call. If you vanish, there will be no one left to call the rest of them."
Asahi watched the beach in silence. He seemed to be counting the lights, looking at each one individually.
"Thirteen, then?"
"Yeah."
"One a night... that makes it Thirteen Nights."
Asahi said nothing more and sat down on the sand.
Koyoi cradled his pouch. The Shizuku pulsed gently. The Name within the manuscript returned the warmth with the same rhythm. Two heats, separated by cloth and paper, huddled close together.
A wave rolled in. The lights on the beach wavered. Perhaps the Names sleeping beneath the sand had sensed the presence of the one called tonight. Their flickering seemed to grow just a little bit stronger.
The night wind blew. Mixed with the scent of the tide, something warm brushed against his nose. It wasn't the smell of ink. It was the temperature of a Name, carried on the breeze.
Koyoi sat on the sand and stared at the lights.
Thirteen nights. If he had that much time, he could gather them all.
The numbness in his fingertips still lingered, ever so slightly.