The characters on the signpost were just barely legible.
"→ Boundary"
The ink was scrawled across a wooden plank that listed to the right. Exposed to years of wind and rain, more than half of the writing had faded into nothingness.
Boundary.
Koyoi didn’t know what the word meant. She only knew that her mother had told her, "You can't stay here." The town had sunk into the mist. There was no going back.
That meant there was nowhere to go but forward.
The mountain path was easier to walk than she had expected. It was a trail of packed earth, flanked by thickets of oak and chestnut trees. The morning sun filtered through the canopy at a sharp angle, casting golden, dappled patterns across the ground.
Birds were singing. The wind was rustling the leaves. It was an ordinary mountain path. Nothing felt out of place.
And yet, her feet felt like lead. She had hardly slept the night before. She had spent the long hours until dawn huddled on a grassy hill, clutching her knees. Her body ached in a dozen different places. The strap of her bag dug into her shoulder, which ached with every step.
"...Are you okay?"
The voice of the God of the Vacant Lot drifted from inside her drawstring pouch.
"...Yeah."
Her voice was raspy. It was a lie.
After about an hour of walking, she came across a set of stone steps. The moss-covered stairs cut right across the middle of the path, rising for about twenty steps. The higher they went, the more they crumbled, eventually disappearing into the overgrowth. On either side, only the bases of stone lanterns remained; the lanterns themselves were nowhere to be found.
"...What is this?"
"...An old road," whispered the God of the Small Shrine.
"...Someone used to pass through here."
A road someone once traveled. A road no one traveled now.
Once she reached the top of the stairs, the path plunged back into the mountains. The trees grew dense and oppressive, blotting out the sun. It was cool, but the loneliness only deepened. When she looked back, the path she had taken had already vanished into the timber.
She turned her eyes forward. She had to keep going.
Just before noon, she reached a clearing. A large rock sat by the side of the road, its top flat enough to sit on. Koyoi lowered herself onto it. Her legs were screaming. Her feet felt damp and heavy inside her shoes; the water from the stream she’d crossed last night still hadn't dried.
She slid the bag off her shoulders. The relief was instantaneous.
"...Resting," she murmured to herself.
She opened the bag and pulled out a piece of hoshimochi—a hard block of dried rice wrapped in oil paper. As she chewed, the flavor slowly bled out. She took a long drink from her bamboo flask. The water was cold, and she swallowed loudly. Slowly, she felt herself begin to settle.
As she rummaged through the bottom of her bag, her fingers brushed against the texture of paper. She pulled out a folded sheet—yellowed and old.
It was a map.
A simple map drawn in ink. It showed mountains, roads, and a handful of place names. In the corner, the words "Kirihara Town" were written, with "The Land of Beginnings" added in small letters underneath.
A road stretched out toward the southwest. It passed through "Stone Stair Ruins" and "Resting Crags," and then, further ahead...
"Boundary."
It was written in large, bold characters. Beneath it sat the words: "Inn of the Gatherers."
"...Mother."
Her voice trembled. Her mother must have tucked this into the bag. She didn't know when her mother had gotten it, or why she’d had it in the first place. But her mother had known. She’d known about this road. She’d known about the Boundary.
In the margin of the map, there was a scrawled note:
The road is not always what is visible.
She didn't understand what it meant.
The drawstring pouch gave a slight wobble.
"...A map?" asked the God of the Vacant Lot.
"Yeah. My mom put it in here."
"...The Boundary," the God of the Small Shrine added slowly. "I have heard of it."
"What is it?"
"...A far-off place."
"...But you can get there."
Far, but reachable.
Koyoi folded the map and tucked it back into her bag. She had a destination now. A place with a name. A direction to follow. That alone seemed to make her feet feel a little lighter.
In the afternoon, the scenery shifted. The broadleaf forest gave way to a grove of cedars. The trunks stretched up perfectly straight, spaced at regular intervals. It had been planted by human hands, but no one tended it now.
The light couldn't reach the floor here. It was dim and somber. The ground was stained a rusty red with fallen cedar needles that crunched dryly under her feet. The air was cold, making her skin crawl.
That was when the world distorted.
The ground beneath her feet seemed to tilt. No—it wasn't tilting. The path was straight, yet everything felt diagonal. The trees looked like they were leaning—left, then right. She couldn't tell. The edges of her vision began to waver and shimmer.
Her ears started ringing—a high-pitched whine that drowned out the sounds of the forest. A sharp, metallic scent stung her nose.
"...It’s warping," she whispered.
The pouch against her side grew icy cold.
"...The space here is warped," the God of the Small Shrine said.
"...Just keep walking," the God of the Vacant Lot urged, its voice hurried.
Koyoi didn’t stop. Her footing felt uncertain and a wave of nausea hit her, but she felt instinctively that she mustn't stay still.
Five steps. Ten steps. Fifteen.
Suddenly, her senses snapped back into place.
She looked back. The cedar grove was just a cedar grove. Nothing looked wrong. But sweat was trickling down her neck, and her heart was still thudding against her ribs.
"...What was that?"
"...I don't know."
"...But it happens. Sometimes, it’s just there."
Koyoi couldn't fully grasp what they meant. But she remembered the words written on the map.
The road is not always what is visible.
Just before dusk, she found the ruins of a torii gate. Only one pillar remained standing. The other had snapped at the base and lay rotting by the side of the road. The crossbeams were split into three pieces, half-buried in the grass.
Once, something had been here. Someone had passed through this spot, offered a prayer, and pressed their hands together. Now, there was no one.
Koyoi reached out and touched the remaining pillar. The stone was cold—the quiet weight of something that had endured a vast stretch of time.
"...Should we rest?" asked the God of the Vacant Lot.
"Just a little further."
She wanted to get as far as possible before the sun vanished.
Past the torii gate, the path narrowed again. The setting sun hit her from the side, stretching her shadow long across the ground. The sound of her footsteps on the fallen leaves seemed unnervingly loud.
Crinkle. Crunch. Crinkle.
Then, she noticed it.
There was one extra footstep.
Koyoi stopped. The footsteps stopped too. She looked back, but the trail behind her was empty. Only the trees, the shadows, and the fading light of the sun remained.
She squinted, straining her ears. The sound of the wind. A bird calling in the distance. That was all.
"...I can hear it," the God of the Small Shrine whispered from the pouch.
"...But I can't see it," the God of the Vacant Lot added.
"...Something is there."
Koyoi turned back to the front and started walking.
Crinkle. Crunch. Her own footsteps.
And then: Thud. Thud. Thud.
She heard it clearly from behind—the sound of something treading on the leaves. A steady, rhythmic gait. She spun around, but again, no one was there.
The footsteps didn't get closer, nor did they fall behind. They simply followed. Something invisible was walking right behind her.
Koyoi stopped looking back. She fixed her eyes forward and kept walking.
The footsteps remained, trailing her through the deepening shadows.