New script flickered into life within the Catalog.
As the train swayed, the pages began to turn of their own accord. Golden ink raced across the final page, which until a moment ago had been a total void.
It was the first memoir of the God.
Kuon read aloud.
“‘To the one who calls a name: Do not mistake the calling. A name is not a gift; it is a promise. Do not surrender your own existence. Instead, tell them they have a place to return to. Tell them, You are here. That alone is enough.’”
Koyoi gazed at his translucent right hand.
He had been surrendering himself. He had been offering up his very being to the name. That was where he had gone wrong.
“Tell them they have a place to return to...” Koyoi repeated. “You are here. That alone is enough.”
Kuon traced the lines on the page with his finger. There was more.
“‘During the first millennium, I faded a little more each time I called a name. Just as you are now. It took a thousand years for me to change my calling. Not to surrender, but to manifest. Not to erase oneself, but to prove one’s own presence. The voice of the living—that alone serves as a coordinate.’”
Asahi looked up at the ceiling of the carriage. “So just being alive makes you an anchor? Sounds like a handy trick.”
“It isn’t a trick.” Kuon shook his head. “To be alive means your name is etched into the records of this world. When one who possesses a name speaks, that voice resonates throughout the world via those records. Even a frozen name can recall its own coordinates by following the sound of a living voice.”
Koyoi tightened his grip on the silk pouch. It felt warm. The droplet inside pulsed with a gentle, steady rhythm.
Not to surrender, but to manifest. To show that I am here.
He raised his right hand. It was still phantom-pale, but the sensation was beginning to return to his fingertips.
“At the next Hoshino, I will try again,” Koyoi said, his voice quiet but firm. “This time, I will call the name truly.”
The pouch glowed in response—a small, warm light.
The train accelerated. Outside the window, a single golden thread remained visible through the mist, pointing the way toward Hoshino. At the end of that thread, the name of a single deity, carved into the very earth, surely still flickered with light.
Koyoi did not close the Catalog. He traced the First God’s handwriting once more. The golden ink did not smudge or rub off on his skin, but its warmth seeped deep, reaching all the way to the translucent bones of his fingers.