The color of the liquid shifted. The silver flow had begun to turn a pale gold. Outside the window, the world was steeped in amber.

"We’re close," Kuon said. "This is the heart of Yoinami Shores."

Kuon was studying the nautical chart in his catalog. The coordinates flickered unsteadily; in a realm of fluid, fixed points did not exist.

The temperature plummeted.

This wasn't the dry chill of Hoshino; the air here was heavy and damp. It was a clinging cold, as if moisture were seeping directly into the fibers of their clothes.

Koyoi’s breath clouded white. The mist hung in the air, refusing to dissipate.

Inside his pouch, everything went still. Shizuku—who until then had been pulsing with a gentle rhythm—suddenly fell silent. The warmth vanished.

Koyoi squeezed the pouch, but there was no response.

"Shizuku?"

Silence.

"This liquid swallows sound," Kuon whispered.

Even inside the carriage, his voice sounded distant, muffled as if the very walls were drinking it in.

"When a name dissolves into the fluid, the voice is the first thing to go. In this realm, the liquid consumes every sound. Whatever is inside that pouch is no exception."

Koyoi cradled the pouch in both hands. It’s just lost its voice, he told himself. Shizuku is still here. The warmth had only faded because it was being smothered by the chill of this place.

Outside the window, the golden currents began to swirl. At the center of the vortex, a dark void appeared.

Asahi stood up. "We're here."

The train came to a halt.

There was no sound—no screech of wheels, no hiss of escaping steam. In absolute, crushing silence, the train settled into stillness.

Beyond the glass, three gray pillars stood tall amidst the golden fluid. This was Yoinami Shores.

When they opened the door, what lay beneath their feet was not sand. It was white—an endless, blinding white. It was the margins of erased records, accumulated like grains of sand to form a shore. With every step, the faint afterimages of forgotten script brushed against their soles before vanishing. Instead of the salt of the sea, the air was thick with the scent of blank paper.