She kept walking. While crying. Even after her tears dried, she did not stop.
The village sank into the mist. The face of the landlady would not leave her mind. "Are you a traveling child?"—the voice that had spoken those words kept repeating deep within her 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."
She answered honestly. She was not alright. But she could not stop.
Before noon, she reached the ridge. The path narrowed, and both sides opened up. The wind blew through. A cold wind dried the traces of her tears. Looking back, she 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. She averted her eyes. She could not bear to look.
She walked the ridge path. The ground beneath her feet was rocky soil with tree roots exposed. She nearly tripped many times. She was exhausted. Even though she had slept properly the night before, her body felt heavy. Her heart was heavy.
"...Rest."
The voice of the God of the shrine.
"...A little further."
If she rested now, she felt she would be unable to move again.
Past noon, she found a large rock. The rock jutted out, leaving a space beneath. It looked as though it could shelter her from rain. Her feet stopped. She was at her limit. She crawled under the rock. The ground was dry. She leaned her back against the rock. It was cold. But she could sit. For that alone, she was grateful.
As she tried to close her eyes, she saw something at the edge of her vision. Among the grass. Deep in the shadow of the rock. Something had been dropped there.
She 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.
She gently searched inside the bag. Beneath her fingertips, she felt paper. She pulled it out. Yellowed washi paper. A single torn sheet. A fragment of a diary.
Slender characters written in ink. A woman's handwriting.
"...Three days more until the Boundary..."
Reading the first line, her 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 fixate..."
"...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.
She 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. She could not read the rest.
Koyoi clutched the paper. Her 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 her own bag. She could not leave it behind. She wanted to carry the words this person had left. The washi was thin and brittle, its creases threatening to tear at any moment. She carefully tucked it into the bottom of her bag. These words might one day help her.
She rested in the shadow of the rock for a while. She ate one piece of dried mochi. She drank some water. Her body felt a little better. Her heart was still heavy. But it was better than before. She was not alone. Before her, someone else had been here. Someone had walked the same path.
In the afternoon, she began walking again. The words from the diary repeated in her head.
"Must not be measured"
"If you see the light, hide"
When Kirihara Town sank, the Observers were there. When the vanished village sank, she had seen nothing. But surely, they had been somewhere.
Before dusk, she came out onto a rocky area with a clear view. The tip of the ridge. Three sides were open, allowing her 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 her 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 her 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. She did not know if they were heading her 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.
Koyoi left the rocky area. She had to hurry. Before reaching the Boundary, she would be measured. If measured, she would be fixated. If fixated.
Koyoi did not know what the rest of the diary said. But she could imagine. The face of the landlady came to mind. The half-eaten breakfast. The steaming miso soup. She would end up the same.
She began to run. To get as far ahead as possible while it was still light. Behind her, the lights continued to flash.