The forest at dawn still held the scent of last night’s rain.
Droplets falling from the tips of leaves struck the dark earth, bursting instantly. The sound of their shattering returned to his ears without a moment’s delay. That natural, honest speed made the weight inside Koyoi’s chest feel a fraction lighter. Wet hair clung to the nape of his neck, pulling like cold threads every time he moved.
The cuffs of his sleeves were still heavy. When he clenched his fingers, the fabric let out a small creak, weeping water that traced the lines of his palm. As he knelt, the moss felt cold and damp; when he pressed his hand to the soil, a damp warmth clung to his skin. His fingertips understood it first—this dampness wasn't just water; it was the softness the earth needed to live. The God of Rain had returned more than just moisture. Deep inside his drawstring pouch, the Droplet he had been granted gave a single, quiet pulse.
The warmth it radiated was not a fever, but a shape meant to mend pain. Koyoi touched the Droplet, confirming that the torn skin on his finger was subsiding into a dull ache, and exhaled. His breath did not turn white. Instead, a lingering chill remained on his neck, a coldness that urged him to start walking.
When pain returns as pain in its purest form, it is proof of having touched something fearsome. Koyoi forced himself to believe that as long as that evidence of fear remained, he could still find his way out of the Forest of Hesitation. Asahi wrung out his soaked sleeves and adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword. The water he squeezed out fell to the soil, and the scent of the earth grew richer where it landed.
Kuon pulled a map and a small compass from a leather bag. He watched the needle’s wobble, accompanied by the dry, mechanical clicking of metal parts. The needle still trembled slightly, dragging with it the habit of the forest’s delusions. Every time it shook, the brass lid touched the tip of his fingernail with a cold chill. The needle, which had lied so many times within the woods, was now swaying back toward a single direction, little by little.
“…The exit. It’s close.”
“The air… it’s changing, isn't it?”
“The places where things change are the most dangerous. Keep your pace steady.”
Following Kuon’s words, Koyoi focused on the soles of his feet. The stickiness of the mud thinned, replaced by an increasing grit of stone. With every step, the damp weight diminished, mingled now with dry, light sounds. Though the boundary was invisible, his skin knew it first. The scent of the wind shifted abruptly.
Piercing through the deep, blue scent of the forest came a thin needle of soot and oil. When he inhaled, the back of his throat felt slightly parched; the moisture left his breath at once. In that dryness, he felt as if the forest were speaking to him: it is over. The moment they crossed the unseen line, the wind from the north blew dry enough to parch his throat, stripping the veil of moisture from his cheeks.
His wet eyelashes grew lighter, but in exchange, the depths of his eyes began to prickle. Looking back, the forest remained dark, cradling its moisture. Looking forward, the sky was vast. A single, thin pillar of smoke rose from the distant horizon; at its base, tiny shadows moved busily. The temperature of the human world reached him as a scent.
The sweetness of firewood, the smell of searing iron, and the heat of human breath mingled together—a thickness different from the scent of rain, grating like sand against the back of his nose. Far above the smoke, he could see several thin pillars. Lines like spider silk were strung from pillar to pillar, letting out a dry creak whenever the wind caught them.
“Telegraph poles,” Kuon said, his voice like a bitter spit. “Threads that carry words by turning them into codes.”
Koyoi looked up at the lines. He felt a dry scream, so different from the sound of forest branches rubbing together, pierce the back of his ears. The records of the human world were visible to the eye, yet they possessed no warmth. And despite that lack of warmth, they were obsessively persistent. By the side of the road sat a small stone shrine.
Its sacred straw rope had come undone, hanging heavy and limp from the rain. Koyoi pressed his hands together and rinsed his mouth with the droplets gathered in his palms. The water was cold, yet it softened the dryness in his throat. Only in front of the shrine did the wind weaken, allowing the lingering fragrance of the rain to turn sweet.
The surface of the stone was rough. When he placed his finger on it, the chill seeped into the base of his nail. Koyoi furrowed his brow just once at the cold and closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, the dark water's surface from last night and the pain of touching the Wedge flickered for an instant, only to be thinned out by the warmth of the Droplet. The shrine said nothing.
Instead, the rhythm of the dripping water remained constant. That constancy was the proof that they had crossed the threshold. Koyoi suddenly remembered his grandmother’s voice. A town where great paper lanterns swayed all at once at dusk. Lights to guide lost souls home.
It was supposed to be a story of a distant place, yet now he was walking toward those very lights. “Before you look at the light, look at your feet,” his grandmother had also said. “The light can be seen from anywhere; that is exactly why your feet will lie to you the most.” Koyoi chewed on those words, resolving never to lose the habit of checking the sensation beneath his soles, even on dry sand.
If he didn't throw that habit away, he could return. He could move forward while leaving a path to go back. The path grew parched. The sand beneath his feet crumbled away. When Koyoi pinched the soil with his fingers, it fell away like powder.
Perhaps sensing that dryness, the Droplet deep in his pouch pressed its warmth against his hip, and some feeling returned to his frozen fingertips. The warmth wasn't sweet. Still carrying the faint scent of rain, it maintained its outline within the dry wind, supporting Koyoi so his stride would not falter.
“…A nostalgic smell.”
“Soot and oil. The scent of human sweat.”
“…It’s the smell of the steam train. There’s a station.”
The word "train" from Kuon’s lips fell heavily into Koyoi’s chest. The Iron Beast. A thing humans ran by turning the power of gods into a tool. Before fear could set in, the sheer vastness of this unknown world took his breath away.
“Is something like that… really running?”
“It runs. Only those who hold the Ticket of Logic may board it.”
“As for us… we pass through by the Record of the Gods,” Asahi’s voice interjected.
Koyoi nodded. They would pass only through where necessary, guarding the light in their hearts. That would be enough. In the distance, a low roar trailed out in a long arc. It wasn't the cry of a beast. The ground trembled, a thin streak of black stretched into the sky, and a scorched smell stung his nose.
“…The whistle.”
Before Kuon could even name it, Koyoi’s skin memorized it as a new threat. And yet, he could tell that within the threat, the heat of human life was mixed in. That heat was a thickness, and for that very reason, it was frightening. A small stream cut across the road ahead.
The water was clear, sliding between black stones. It was so cold it made his fingers ache to touch it. But deep within that cold, the Droplet resonated faintly, and its warmth shimmered on the water's surface for a fleeting second. A small silver fish drew near, then vanished, startled by his shadow. Past the stream, there were prints of straw sandals and the ruts of cart wheels.
Signs of people. Kuon’s gaze sharpened; Asahi’s shoulders went rigid. Koyoi steadied his breath, touched his pouch, and let the warmth of the Droplet sink into the depths of his chest. From the spot where the warmth landed, his fear took on a distinct outline—and once it had an outline, fear transformed into the caution needed to keep from losing his footing.
He had learned how to stop in the Forest of Mist. This time, he would choose it for himself. In the distance, the whistle blew once more. The sound, trailing long, tore through the dry air. Koyoi straightened his spine at the sound and surrendered the chill on his back to the wind.
“Let’s go.”
At Koyoi’s word, the three synchronized their steps. The moisture of the forest behind them receded; the dry wind ahead grew stronger. The wind was cold yet light—so light that it felt as though carelessness might slip in. Koyoi took one deep breath, then returned to a shallow, steady rhythm. The Droplet pulsed once. It protected without saying it would.
The warmth through the fabric of the pouch pressed against his hip bone, and that touch told him he was still himself. Upon the road, the footprints of people were multiplying. The more they grew, the easier it would be for the presence of Observers to mingle in. Koyoi was afraid of that, yet as he feared, he did not let it show. He moved forward, gathering only the sensations of his soles, the scents, and the sounds.
The telegraph lines cried. The steam whistle cried.
Memorizing the differences in their calls, Koyoi kept the light in his chest small and headed toward the next town. The dry wind stole the moisture from his cheeks. Every time the spot where it was stolen began to prickle, he confirmed his fingertips against the warmth of the pouch and told himself he could still walk.
The smoke was distant, but its scent was close. And the closer the scent became, the closer they were to a seam in the Logic. The Droplet pulsed quietly one last time, leaving the scent of rain deep within the smell of the murk. So as not to lose that scent, Koyoi aligned his breathing with every single step.
Surely. Now. Forward. Now.