The wind was thin.
It was blowing; Koyoi could feel it against his cheeks. But there was no sound. His hair fluttered, yet the rustle was absent. The grass swayed, yet the whisper of leaves remained unheard.
Koyoi pressed a hand to his mouth and exhaled.
He felt the warmth of his breath. But again, silence. Even the faint, abrasive friction of a sigh had been erased.
“Kuon.”
The word left his lips, but it failed to reach Kuon, who stood a mere three paces ahead.
“Kuon!”
He tried again, louder this time. Kuon turned, his brow furrowing as if he had only just managed to catch the sound.
“...Your voice sounds so far away.”
Kuon opened his register. No sound accompanied the turning of the pages. Though paper rubbed against paper, nothing reached their ears.
“The names of this entire area have been stripped away at the root,” Kuon said. “Because there are no names, the air has no substance. The wind blows, but the information that makes the wind the wind is missing.”
Kuon’s voice was thin as well. Even though he stood right beside him, it sounded as if he were speaking from behind a thick wall.
Asahi struck the hilt of his sword. Metal should have rung out. It didn’t.
“...This is going to be a problem.”
Asahi’s voice carried the best of the three, yet even he sounded at half-volume.
Koyoi gripped his drawstring pouch. He could feel Shizuku’s pulse through the fabric, but he couldn't hear the heartbeat. Only the sensation remained; the sound was gone.
“We have to call out the names,” Koyoi said. His own voice sounded distant even to his own ears.
“Calling from here won't reach them,” Kuon analyzed. “The air can’t carry the names. The vessel is empty, so even if you pour something in, it just spills over.”
Kuon was right. It meant that, here, a name had nowhere to land.
Koyoi closed his eyes.
A world without sound was more terrifying than he had imagined. With his eyes shut, there was nothing. Only the tactile brush of the wind remained, while everything else had vanished. This was what it meant to have names stripped away: the world lost its depth.
He opened his eyes.
“I’m going to shout.”
Kuon looked up. “Shout what?”
“The names. If the air here is thin, we just have to make our voices louder. Even in thin air, a great cry might reach them.”
“It’ll wear you down,” Kuon warned. “If you shout in a place like this, your very outline will scatter along with your voice.”
Koyoi knew that. Even so, he couldn't just pass through this place in silence.
The fact that this area had no names meant that names had once existed here. Those stripped names were waiting for a voice. They were listening from the other side of the thin air.
“If one person isn't enough, then two of us will shout.”
Asahi stepped up beside him.
“My voice is thick. If I layer it with yours, we can break through this thin air.”
“Asahi—”
“Don't overthink it. If we’re doing this, it’s now.”
Kuon held his register ready, prepared to record the names as they descended. He didn't argue further. His expression suggested he knew these two wouldn't stop even if he did.
Koyoi pulled out a transcript—a list of names lost to this region. Five names were written there.
He gave voice to the first.
“Amane!”
The sound emerged, but the thin air repelled it, and it scattered instantly. It didn't even travel three paces.
Asahi shouted the same name.
“Amane!”
His booming voice layered over the resonance of Koyoi’s. The two voices became a single pillar, forcing a path through the hollow air. Sound traveled. Ten paces. Twenty. Still, it wasn't enough.
Koyoi drew a deep breath and wrung a cry from the depths of his soul.
“Amane!”
Asahi and Koyoi’s voices struck the air in unison.
For a fleeting moment, the thin wind grew thick.
A name fell to the ground.
A single thread of light trailed down from the sky and soaked into the earth at their feet. The tips of Koyoi’s fingers turned white. His outline was fraying. But the name had landed.
Kuon recorded it. “Next.”
Koyoi read the second name.
“Misaki!”
Asahi followed immediately.
“Misaki!”
Their voices overlapped. The air creaked. The name fell. The color drained from the back of Koyoi’s hand.
The third.
“Haruka!”
His throat burned. His voice cracked and rasped. Asahi’s voice alone tore through the air, dragging the name down.
Koyoi sank to his knees.
The pouch was burning hot. Shizuku was desperately sending warmth, trying to mend his frayed outline, but it couldn't keep up.
“...Two... more.”
“Stop.”
Kuon closed the register.
“We’ve brought down three. Your voice is at its limit. We’ll call the rest at the next location.”
“But—”
“If you call them all here, your own name will disappear first.”
Koyoi fell silent.
His throat ached. Every time he spoke, he felt something leaking out from within him. To call a name was to give away a piece of one's own.
Asahi took Koyoi’s arm and pulled him to his feet.
“Three is plenty. We’ll come back for the rest.”
The three began to walk through the thin wind. Voices were still distant. Footsteps were still silent. But the wind felt just a little more substantial than it had before.
It was because three names had returned to the air.
Where there are names, sound is born. Voices reach their destination. The wind finds its voice.
Koyoi didn't look back.
He etched into his heart the knowledge that the two remaining names were waiting on the other side of that thin air.
The pain in his throat was his promise to return.