The wind died.
Completely.
The grass stopped swaying, the sand ceased its dance, and even the crests of the waves stilled as if frozen in place. It was the yunagi—the evening calm. That breathless hush unique to the coast that arrives only in the fading light of dusk.
But the calm today was different from any Koyoi had ever known.
The surface of the ocean began to turn transparent. With the ripples gone, the water grew clear as glass. The surface reflections vanished, leaving the depths completely exposed.
And beneath it lay another sea.
"...Can you see it?"
Kuon stood at the edge of the embankment. He narrowed his artificial eye, staring intently beneath the surface.
Koyoi knelt beside him. About a foot below the surface, there was another layer of water. Between the upper sea and the lower sea, a thin membrane of air was sandwiched.
The upper sea was gray. The lower sea was gold.
"It’s in two layers."
"The face and the reverse of the Record," Kuon replied.
Kuon cast the light from his artificial eye into the depths. The blue beam pierced the upper layer and reached the golden depths. In that instant, the lower sea reacted.
Something was swimming in the golden water.
They weren't fish. They were characters.
Fragments of names, broken down stroke by individual stroke, drifted through the golden water. Horizontal strokes slithered like eels; vertical strokes swayed like water-grass; dots rose and fell like bubbles.
"Names... the names are swimming."
Koyoi’s voice cracked.
The sachet at his side grew hot. The Drop was reacting to the sea below. The warmth, seeping through the fabric, traveled from his hand up his arm, reaching deep into his chest.
"I can see them. The heat from the sachet... it’s giving them shape."
Koyoi held the sachet over the water. As the heat from the Drop reached the golden layer, the scattered strokes began to cluster. Horizontals and verticals aligned; left-side radicals fused with right-side components.
A single name took form in the depths. Two glowing golden characters looked up from just beneath the surface.
"Is it calling out? Or does it just want to be found?"
"Either way is fine," Asahi said, arms folded. "If you’ve found it, pick it up."
Koyoi dipped his right hand into the water. The upper layer was cold. His fingers passed through the gap of air and touched the lower layer.
It was warm. It held the temperature of a bath—the body heat of a name.
The moment his fingertips brushed the golden characters, the name wound itself around his hand. The two characters gripped his fingers and crawled up his wrist, slithering along his forearm.
"Ah—"
Koyoi pulled his hand back. The moment the name left the water and touched the air, it lost its light. The gold faded, turning to the color of ink. Yet it kept its shape, clinging firmly to his skin.
"Transfer it to the manuscript."
Kuon held out a sheet of paper.
Koyoi touched the name, carefully scooping it up with his fingertips as if peeling it from his arm. The name did not resist. Once placed upon the manuscript paper, the ink soaked into the fibers and took hold.
"The twenty-third soul," Kuon recorded.
The calm persisted. A few moments of windless time still remained.
Koyoi peered into the water once more. In the golden sea, countless strokes still drifted. Fragments of names drew close and parted, beginning to form shapes only to unravel again.
He couldn't catch them all. Once the yunagi ended, the waves would rise, and the lower sea would vanish from sight.
"Just one more."
Koyoi reached into the water again. This time, the name came to him. Golden characters gathered at his fingertips, assembling into a name of three characters.
He pulled it up. The color shifted as it hit the air. He transferred it to the manuscript.
"Twenty-four," Kuon counted curtly.
The wind began to return. A faint breeze stroked the sand, and the first ripple spread across the surface of the sea. The golden layer wavered, and the forms of the names grew blurred.
Asahi looked up at the sky. "The sun is setting."
The western sky burned a fiery red. The end of the calm. The wind struck the surface of the ocean, and the transparent water returned to its opaque, dull gray.
The lower sea vanished.
Koyoi wiped his wet hand and cradled the manuscript to his chest. The two names were drying upon the paper.
The golden sea was gone. But it hadn't ceased to exist. It was still there, beneath the waves. Every time the wind stopped, on the reverse side of the evening calm, the names continued to swim.
Waiting. Waiting for the next person to reach out a hand.
Koyoi gripped his sachet. The warmth of the Drop still lingered in his palm.