Koyoi pressed a single leaf of the manuscript against the windowpane. A fog crept over the glass—not from the moisture of the parchment, though.
Outside the pane, a thin film of liquefied records had taken hold. As the manuscript made contact with the film, the ink on the page began to pulse with a faint light. The characters were calling out—reaching for the names on the other side of the glass.
“Stop. You’ll draw the names right out.”
Kuon peeled the page away from the window. Several silver droplets clung to the surface of the paper.
Koyoi reached out and touched one with the tip of his finger. It was cold.
It was a different kind of cold than the Shizuku inside his pouch. The Shizuku held the warmth of life, but this droplet was—
“Is this... a fragment of a name?”
“Exactly. A piece of a dissolved name permeated the glass and adhered to the manuscript. But a mere fragment is meaningless. Without the core, it can never be made whole again.”
Kuon peered at the droplet through his artificial eye. A pale blue light lanced through the silver.
“It’s more than just the Four Pillars. Within this fluid... thousands of names have been dissolved.”
Koyoi gazed out the window. A silver current surged beneath the train, rushing along in a heavy torrent. Within it, he saw countless threads of gold.
Thousands.
Thousands of names had been cast away here.
The pouch at his side gave a small, trembling pulse. The Shizuku was terrified of this place. No doubt the sorrow of the names adrift in the current was bleeding through the fabric.
Koyoi tightened his hand around the pouch, offering what warmth he could.
“It’s alright. Don't be afraid.”
He spoke the words aloud. They were meant for the Shizuku, but he found himself needing to hear them just as much.
On the manuscript, a single silver droplet began to blush with a faint gold. It wasn't a glow, but a change in the color itself. The freezing drop took on a trace of warmth.
Koyoi touched it with his fingertip; the heat was minuscule, but undeniable.
The train lurched, sending the droplet sliding across the page. It left a thin, golden trail in its wake. The fragment was charting its own course. The line came to a halt at the edge of the parchment, pointing directly toward the window.
Beyond the glass, amidst the silver torrent, a single golden streak paced the train. It was different now—moving with intent, as if it were giving chase.
Koyoi tucked the manuscript against his chest and pressed his bare palm to the pane. Through the barrier of the glass, the gold in the current and the golden line on the page hummed in faint resonance.
The boundary of the town was drawing near.
Beyond it, the laws governing names would shift. Records that still held their form on this side would be unmade the moment they crossed the threshold—and that threshold was fast approaching. Kuon’s artificial eye could see it coming.
They had to seize that gold before they crossed. Beyond the boundary, even the hand that reached for it would be dissolved.
The train’s wheels screeched. Its rhythm changed. Outside the window, the silver current shifted its hue at a specific point in the distance.
That was it. The Boundary.