At the heart of the crossroads stood a stone guidepost.
It was roughly the height of a man, with destinations carved into each of its four faces. To the north: “Starfall Town.” To the east: “Port Namizato.” To the south: “The Station of Mists.” To the west: “The Sutra Repository.”
The characters were legible, yet something felt inherently wrong.
“The tide is coming in.”
Asahi looked down at his feet. Water was seeping through the cracks in the cobblestones. It wasn't seawater. It was crystal clear, cold, and utterly odorless. It was the Water of Record.
The water level began to rise, swirling past their ankles and reaching their shins. The base of the guidepost was swallowed by the flood.
“...It changed,” Koyoi cried out.
The inscriptions on the guidepost were transforming. Beneath the surface of the water, different characters began to shimmer into view. To the north: “The Well of Oblivion.” To the east: “The Estuary of Names.” To the south: “The Station of Voices.” To the west: “The Manuscript Vault.”
Above and below the waterline, the guidepost pointed toward entirely different worlds.
Kuon knelt, bringing his face close to the water. The azure light of his artificial eye pierced the surface, illuminating the submerged text.
“The ones underwater are older,” Kuon murmured. “This is the original guidepost. The names above the water were carved later—overwritten by the Observers.”
“So, the ones on top are lies?” Koyoi asked.
“Not lies, exactly. More like a mask. They replaced the original names to hide the paths that names take. But when stone is submerged in this water, it reveals its original form. The water washes the memories back to the surface.”
Kuon opened his ledger and began to transcribe the submerged characters. While his artificial eye tracked the text beneath the surface, his other hand moved with practiced speed, his brush dancing across the paper.
“The Well of Oblivion in the north... that is the final well where names fall. Once they drop in, they never surface again. The Estuary of Names in the east is where names flow out to sea. Once they reach the ocean, they dissipate into nothingness.”
“What about the Station of Voices in the south?” Koyoi asked, peering over his shoulder.
“That is the true stopping point for the Fog Train. The current station is a facsimile built by the Observers. The real platform is much deeper than this.”
The water continued to rise, passing their knees and reaching their thighs. The four faces of the guidepost were now completely submerged; only the sunken characters remained visible.
Asahi grabbed Kuon by the collar. “Hurry. It’ll vanish once the water recedes.”
“I know.”
Kuon’s brush flew, recording the coordinates for the Manuscript Vault in the west. It was a hidden archive tucked deep behind the Sutra Repository—a place where the Observers kept the records they had hidden away. It was where the tools used to erase names lay dormant.
But the destinations weren't the only things carved into the stone.
Beneath the four names, smaller characters were etched into the rock. Koyoi squinted, trying to make them out.
“...There are directions. Three days to the north. Half a day to the east. The south can only be traversed on nights of the high tide. The west is open only to those who have lost their voices.”
“They are conditional paths,” Kuon said, finishing his notes. “Not just anyone can pass through.”
Kuon closed the ledger. Every detail of the submerged guidepost was now recorded within its pages.
The water stopped rising.
Then, slowly, it began to pull back.
As the water level dropped, the sunken characters grew faint. The names seemed to dissolve and wash away, like ink bleeding from the surface of the stone.
By the time the water had fully receded, only the surface-level names remained on the guidepost. “Starfall Town,” “Port Namizato.” The false landmarks stood in a row as if nothing had happened.
Koyoi placed his hand on the guidepost. The stone was dry—so parched it was hard to believe it had been underwater moments ago.
“When will the next tide come?”
“I don't know. But it will come,” Kuon said, clutching the ledger to his chest. “They can hide the paths that names take, but they cannot erase the cycle of the tides. The water always returns.”
Asahi looked down the crossroads. Four paths stretched out into the fog. The guidepost above told a lie; the guidepost below told the truth. But for now, the water was gone.
“Which way?” Asahi asked.
Kuon looked at his ledger, tracing the fresh coordinates with his finger.
“North. The Well of Oblivion is dangerous, but there is a confluence of names just before you reach it. I suspect that is where the Seven Pillars are heading.”
Koyoi looked back at the guidepost one last time.
On the dry surface of the stone, a single fingerprint remained. It was where he had touched it just now. The mark glowed with a faint, watery light.
The memory of the one who touched it had transferred to the stone.
Perhaps, when the next tide came, this fingerprint too would become a character beneath the waves.
The three of them chose the northern path.
Behind them, the guidepost faded into the mist. On the dry stone, only the fingerprint continued to glow with a soft, lingering light.