He kept walking. While crying. Even after his tears dried, he did not stop.
The village sank into the mist. The face of the landlady would not leave his mind. "A little traveler, are you?"—the voice that had spoken those words kept repeating deep within his ears.
Those people are still in there, even now. Sitting before their half-eaten breakfast. Without ever finishing, for eternity.
"...Are you alright?"
From inside the pouch, the voice of the God of the vacant lot.
"...No."
He answered honestly. He was not alright. But he could not stop.
Before noon, he reached the ridge. The path narrowed, and both sides opened up. The wind blew through. A cold wind dried the traces of his tears. Looking back, he saw a white mass in the northeast. It was the village submerged in mist. It floated like a motionless white island under the morning sun. He averted his eyes. He could not bear to look.
He walked the ridge path. The ground beneath his feet was rocky soil with tree roots exposed. He nearly tripped many times. He was exhausted. Even though he had slept properly the night before, his body felt heavy. His heart was heavy.
"...Rest."
The voice of the God of the shrine.
"...A little further."
If he rested now, he felt he would be unable to move again.
Past noon, he found a large rock. The rock jutted out, leaving a space beneath. It looked as though it could shelter him from rain. His feet stopped. He was at his limit. He crawled under the rock. The ground was dry. He leaned his back against the rock. It was cold. But he could sit. For that alone, he was grateful.
As he tried to close his eyes, he saw something at the edge of his vision. Among the grass. Deep in the shadow of the rock. Something had been dropped there.
He drew closer. It was a bag. An old leather bag. It was blackened, and the strap was broken. There were holes in places. It seemed to have been here for years. The contents were half scattered. A bamboo water bottle. Dried and cracked. A fragment of a kimono. An indigo-dyed sleeve of a woman's kimono. And. A small pouch. An empty, red pouch.
Koyoi gasped.
"...This."
"...Was here."
The voice of the God of the shrine.
"...Before, someone."
The voice of the God of the vacant lot followed.
Someone had been here. Someone, just like Koyoi, had been traveling with a pouch. And, here.
He gently searched inside the bag. Beneath his fingertips, he felt paper. He pulled it out. Yellowed washi paper. A single torn sheet. A fragment of a diary.
Slender, careful characters written in ink.
"...Three days more until the Boundary..."
Reading the first line, his heart leaped. The Boundary. This person had also been aiming for the Boundary.
"...Must not be measured..."
"...If you see the light, hide..."
"...They are trying to fix..."
"...Run. As far as you can..."
"...In my pouch, there are still three pillars..."
Three pillars. This person had also been gathering deities. Just like Koyoi.
Without thinking, Koyoi had pressed a hand to his own pouch. Two pillars. He still had only two. And yet this person had gathered three. Only the faint warmth seeping through his fingertips connected him to the gods.
He turned the paper over. There were words on the back as well.
"...Do not give them names until the very end..."
"...If they have names, they will be recorded..."
"...If recorded, they will be measured..."
"...If measured..."
There, the paper was torn. He could not read the rest.
Koyoi clutched the paper. His hands were trembling. What happened to this person? Did they reach the Boundary? Or.
The pouch grew slightly heavier.
"...We do not know."
"...But they were here."
"...They were certainly here."
The voices of the gods were quiet. Sorrow and respect mingled within them.
Koyoi placed the diary fragment into his own bag. He could not leave it behind. He wanted to carry the words this person had left. The washi was thin and brittle, its creases threatening to tear at any moment. He carefully tucked it into the bottom of his bag. These words might one day help him.
He rested in the shadow of the rock for a while. He ate one piece of dried mochi. He drank some water. His body felt a little better. His heart was still heavy. But it was better than before. He was not alone. Before him, someone else had been here. Someone had walked the same path.
He retied the straps of his bag tightly once more. He checked the remaining dried mochi. Three pieces. One a day, and they would last two days more. He shook the water bottle to check how much was left. Less than half. Pushing the pain in the soles of his feet deep down, he stood up.
In the afternoon, he began walking again. The words from the diary repeated in his head.
"Must not be measured"
"If you see the light, hide"
When Kirihara Town sank, the Observers were there. When the vanished village sank, he had seen nothing. But surely, they had been somewhere.
Before dusk, he came out onto a rocky area with a clear view. The tip of the ridge. Three sides were open, allowing him to see far into the distance. The western sky was beginning to turn red. Watching the sunset, Koyoi let out a breath.
At that moment, something flashed at the edge of his vision.
In the east. On the mountain slope. White lights were flashing. Not just one. Three. No, four. Five. They were moving slowly. Flashing in a regular rhythm.
"...That."
The pouch suddenly grew cold.
"...The things that measure."
The voice of the God of the shrine was trembling.
"...We must run."
The voice of the God of the vacant lot followed.
The words from the diary echoed in his head.
"If you see the light, hide"
Those lights were the Observers. Carrying machines, they were climbing the mountain. They were searching for Koyoi.
The lights were moving slowly. He did not know if they were heading his way or in another direction. But they were not far. There might not even be two kilometers separating them. They might catch up by tomorrow.
On the ridge, his silhouette would float against the sky. Before dark fell, he had to descend one level lower. If he hid in the shadow of the valley, those lights might not find him.
Koyoi left the rocky area. He had to hurry. Before reaching the Boundary, he would be measured. If measured, he would be fixed. If fixed.
Koyoi did not know what the rest of the diary said. But he could imagine. The face of the landlady came to mind. The half-eaten breakfast. The steaming miso soup. He would end up the same.
He began to run. To get as far ahead as possible while it was still light. Behind him, the lights continued to flash.