The tide had gone out.
But in its wake, something had been left behind on the shore. Across the white sand ran several thin, golden streaks. They looked like ripples, yet they were not ripples. These lines had form. Fragments of what were once names—remnants like letters, like voices—had been carried by the tide to wash up here.
Koyoi knelt, bringing his face close to the sand. It smelled of salt and something else besides. A sweet, nostalgic scent that made the back of his nose tingle with a dull ache.
“They’re names.”
Kuon spoke from behind him. The blue light from his artificial eye crawled across the sand, illuminating the golden streaks one by one.
“The sea brought them. These are names cast away at the penal colony—those that didn’t dissolve completely have been carried by the tide and washed ashore.”
Koyoi touched the sand with his fingertips. The golden streaks were lukewarm. A temperature close to body heat pulsed against the pads of his fingers.
“They’re alive.”
Kuon nodded.
“They still hold their form. But they won’t last long. The next high tide will sweep them back out to sea.”
Asahi lightly prodded the sand with the scabbard of his greatsword. From where he struck, a golden streak shivered and spread like a living thing.
“Can we pick them up?”
“We have the transcripts.”
Koyoi pulled a single sheet from the seven transcripts he held to his chest and laid it on the sand. The moment the golden streak touched the paper, the transcript glowed faintly. One of the names written in ink began to darken, growing thick and bold.
The characters matched.
The name on the sand and the one recorded in the transcript were one and the same. The fragment of a name that had been dissolved and left to drift through the sea was now returning to the paper, drawn back to its original record.
“...They’re coming back,” Koyoi’s voice rasped. The letters on the transcript were blooming with a gentle heat.
But not everything returned.
Kuon directed the light of his artificial eye toward a second golden streak. The blue glow traced the outline of the characters, but the line cut off abruptly.
“This one is only half. The end of the name remains, but the beginning has dissolved.”
“Is half not enough?”
Kuon shook his head.
“A name only becomes a name when it is whole. If syllables are missing, there is a risk it will take root as a different name entirely. If you put it into the wrong vessel, it will break—content and all.”
Koyoi stared at the fragment on the sand. Half a name. Only the sounds of the latter half. He couldn't tell who it belonged to from that alone. And yet, it had certainly been a word once used to call out to someone.
“I’ll cross-reference with the index.”
Kuon opened the register. On a page showing a nautical chart were fifty-one names. He traced his finger over the ones they had yet to recover.
“Names ending in ‘nagi.’ There are two: Nagino and Yunagi.”
Koyoi placed his finger on the fragment once more. The lukewarm heat was pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Is there a way to tell which is which?”
“Only by asking the owner. But the owner no longer remembers their own name.”
Silence fell. Only the low, rhythmic crash of waves in the distance repeated itself.
Asahi crunched across the sand and faced the sea. The tide was still low. Other golden streaks were scattered across the beach. Five. Six. Each one Koyoi counted made his heart ache.
“Pick them all up.”
Asahi spoke without looking back.
“Half is fine. Even if they’re broken, it’s better than nothing. We can piece them together later.”
Koyoi nodded and spread out the transcripts. Kuon verified them one by one with the light of his eye. The long shadows of the three stretched across the sand, overlapping with the golden streaks.
By the time the tide began to turn, Koyoi had gathered eleven fragments onto the paper. Four were complete names. The remaining seven were merely shards of syllables.
When he held the transcripts back to his chest, the paper felt just a little heavier. It was the weight of the names.
The sound of the waves grew closer.
Before the high tide arrived, the three left the beach. Behind them, the waves washed over the sand, swallowing the remaining golden streaks one by one. Koyoi did not look back. If he did, he would only see what they hadn't been able to save.
He felt for the warmth of the transcripts against his chest. What he had gathered was certainly there.