Chapter 29: “The Silent Archive and the Bookbinding (Repair) for Tomorrow”
“...W-we made ittt...! It’s the goal‚ Rin-chan! Our ‘Mud-Breakthrough Express’ has safely arrived at the central terminal station!”
Holding my unmoving left arm with my right hand‚ I shouted from atop the signboard sled.
The bottom of the sled climbed onto the great stone staircase leading to the library’s main entrance with a dull *thud.*
When I looked back‚ there spread behind us the brown sea of mud that we had risked our lives to carve through.
The sight of the city’s wreckage floating and sinking in it was no longer something a cute comparison like marshmallows in sweets could capture—it was the very stomach of the world itself.
“...Haa...! ...Haa... ...Shut up‚ Nagisa... Your voice... hits my eardrums with... physical weight...”
Rin-chan—our “main engine‚” with the towing rope biting into her shoulder—dropped to her knees on the spot.
Her bare white shoulder‚ exposed where the sleeve of her water-repellent jacket had torn away‚ was swollen red from cold and overload‚ shining painfully where rainwater and sweat mixed together.
“...Ah... ah...”
A breath that couldn’t even become words echoed eerily—only the sound of her forcing air into her lungs.
Rin-chan’s fingertips clutching the mud trembled in small spasms‚ shaking again and again regardless of her will.
“Rin-chan‚ great job! Look‚ my special ‘fully automatic shoulder-tapping machine’ is free for one hour right now—”
“...Don’t need it. More importantly‚ Haru. Check that the sled is secured. If the water level rises‚ this will become our only escape boat.”
Completely ignoring my joke‚ Rin-chan grabbed the edge of the stairs with trembling fingers.
Even in extreme exhaustion‚ her rationalism left not the slightest opening.
“...Understood. Based on the current rate of water level rise‚ it will take four hours before these stairs are completely submerged. Before that‚ we need to pull this ‘cradle of steel’ into the lobby.”
At the edge of the sled‚ Haru-kun answered while protecting his broken right leg and clutching a blank notebook to his chest.
His voice‚ too‚ trembled faintly—perhaps from the tension of having just crossed the sea of mud.
The three of us dragged the mud-covered signboard sled and slipped into the library lobby through a gap in the heavy automatic doors.
The fierce sound of rain outside faded away‚ blocked by the thick walls.
“...It’s quiet‚ isn’t it?”
I muttered without thinking.
What filled the lobby was the smell of damp paper and a heavy silence that made the inside of my ears ring.
It was a strange quietness‚ like being inside a grave marker—different from the terror that had felt like it would swallow us unless I kept narrating just moments ago.
As if we alone had been left behind in the world as “noise that leaked out of the recording‚” an eerie sense of disconnection.
“...Nagisa. Is the tourniquet on your right leg loosening?”
Rin-chan peered at me while wiping sweat from her sleeveless arm.
In her eyes still lingered the raw afterheat of the fear of losing me.
“It’s fine. Mr. AC adapter and my leg have become pretty good friends already.”
I forced a smile.
(...But the truth is… making Rin-chan raise her voice like that… I still can’t even take a single step on my own.)
That frustration formed a hot lump deep in my chest.
Because Rin-chan alone pulled the more-than-140-kilogram weight of us‚ we were able to reach this sanctuary like this.
I still hadn’t returned anything worthy of that devotion.
The three of us were already “one organism.” The one who carries‚ the one who records‚ and the one who laughs.
In the dim library lobby‚ we finally began to feel with our own skin that we had survived the sea of mud.
Beyond the lobby‚ the reading room visible through the shattered glass looked as if time had frozen at that exact moment.
Collapsed bookshelves. Countless pages scattered across the floor. Bundles of paper swollen with water overlapped like a school of fish that had stopped breathing.
“...It’s like the books are crying.”
At my words‚ Haru-kun nodded quietly.
“...Records are the very breath of the world. If the breathing stops‚ the world loses even the fact that it ever existed.”
Without saying anything‚ Rin-chan picked up a single soaked book.
She tried to turn a page with her fingertips‚ then quickly stopped her hand.
The paper‚ swollen with water‚ looked like it would crumble just from being touched.
“...Dry them. Line them up. Let air pass through. Start with what we can do.”
Short words. But they were closer to a prayer than a command.
We looked at one another.
Our bodies‚ having just crossed the sea of mud‚ were screaming in pain.
Even so—there was no reason to stop here.
“Alright‚ temporary opening! The ‘Bookbinding Workshop for Tomorrow’ is open today only!”
Even I was surprised at how brightly my voice echoed.
A small crack formed in the silence‚ and from it a faint warmth began to seep out.
Haru-kun opened his blank notebook and began recording the condition of the pages with trembling hands.
Rin-chan removed the broken shelf boards and assembled an improvised drying rack.
I stayed seated‚ spreading out the pages within reach one by one‚ creating paths for air to flow.
Simple work. Yet each action felt like a ritual confirming that “the world has not ended yet.”
Outside‚ the rain kept falling.
The sea of mud was surely raising its level little by little as well.
Even so‚ inside this quiet archive—
The smell of paper‚ faint body warmth‚ and the tiny sound of turning pages were certainly reweaving the shape of “tomorrow.”
“...Nagisa.”
Suddenly‚ Rin-chan called my name.
“What is it?”
“...Your voice earlier. It was loud... but it wasn’t bad.”
For a moment‚ it took time to understand what she meant.
Then something loosened deep in my chest.
“Hehe. It’s a limited-time service‚ you know. If you’d like to use it again‚ please present your point card—”
“...Shut up.”
It was an instant reply.
But there was the faintest trace of laughter in her voice.
Haru-kun lifted his face from the notebook.
Though his expression still held the color of exhaustion‚ it somehow looked relieved.
“...Recording. Today‚ we began emergency document preservation work in one corner of the library. Participants: three. All alive.”
That single sentence echoed strangely heavy—and gentle.
The sound of turning pages.
The distant sound of rain.
And the uneven breathing of three people.
The silence was no longer “blankness.”
It was the margin where tomorrow could be written.
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