The morning light was slowly beginning to stain the stone walls of Graovant. Rasco sat before his desk, staring at the paper in his hand. He had looked at it countless times since last night. No matter how many times he read it, he couldn't understand it. Wavy curves covered the entire surface of the paper. Dova-Reen—the writing system of the Aile language. Written in what was called the classical style, each curve was adorned with delicate embellishments. A special way of writing used only by elders and in ceremonial settings. (What beautiful characters.) That was his honest impression. Here he was, a translator who made his living with words, unable to read a single word of what lay before him. That quiet heaviness settled in his chest like sediment. Who had left it here? When he returned to his room yesterday, it was sitting on his desk. Graovant was an official residence for imperial bureaucrats. Aile people weren't supposed to be able to enter this place. Rasco carefully folded the paper and placed it in the inner pocket of his jacket. Along with his vocabulary survey notebook for today. From the moment he put it in his pocket, he couldn't stop feeling its weight. It was just a thin sheet of paper, yet it felt like it was always there. From his room's window, he could see Meila Bay. Today the sky was overcast, and the sea was a darker gray than usual. Two imperial supply ships were leisurely moored in the harbor. Apparently, dozens of Aile sailing ships used to come and go—but that had become a distant memory since the Tsaran Sea Battle three years ago. Rasco picked up his jacket and checked the inner pocket one more time. The corner of the paper touched his finger. (I'll look at it again later.) With that thought, he headed toward Dova Square. 　　◇ One hundred twenty stone steps up from the harbor. His breath came a little short. Rasco had learned this number first when he came to Meila-An—it was the first thing his body had absorbed. One hundred twenty steps. He counted them every morning. Today was one hundred twenty steps as well. When he reached the stone-paved square, the smell of the morning tide came to him. Fish, salt, and a hint of seaweed. In the center of the square stood the Tidal Pillar—a limestone column four meters high—standing quietly beneath the overcast sky. The old men were already there. Three of them on a stone bench. When Rasco approached, their conversation stopped abruptly. It happened the same way every morning. For three weeks, this had occurred every single day. He wanted to say he was used to it, but honestly, his chest still tightened a little. "Good morning, everyone," Rasco greeted them in the imperial language, then switched to Aile. This was important. Most of the old men weren't good with the imperial language. "Thank you for your time today," Or so he intended. One of the old men froze. Another glanced at his neighbor. The third placed a hand over his mouth. Rasco didn't understand. Had he said something wrong? "Thank you for your time" in Aile was— One of the old men said something in a low voice in Aile. Rasco couldn't catch it. Then another old man made a strangled sound and turned toward the edge of the square. His shoulders were trembling. (Is this a continuation of yesterday's silence?) Rasco opened his notebook with a solemn expression. Perhaps he had stepped into a more complex context than expected. He needed to respond carefully. "...Have I caused you any inconvenience?" The old man's shoulders trembled even more violently. "Whether to laugh or mourn, that's the feeling," Suddenly, a voice spoke in Aile. It wasn't low, but it carried well. Calm, yet barely suppressing laughter. Rasco turned around. Standing in the shadow between the stone bench and the fish market, slightly behind the old men, was a woman. Her long hair was a deep blue color that held a strange light even beneath the overcast sky. It had gentle waves and soft waves, swaying lightly with each breeze. Her eyes—Rasco lost his words for a moment there. Gold. Not yellow, not amber, but a calm gold that quietly absorbed light. She was about a head shorter than Rasco. She wore a white, thin jacket and held a small notebook in her hands. She appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years old. "You just said 'I came to pick up bones today,'" She said it gently in Aile. Rasco froze. "...What?" "Your tone is off. Aile is a tonal language where meaning changes with the pitch of your voice—the same syllable becomes a completely different word depending on how you raise or lower it. You used the wrong tone for 'thank you for your time' and used the tone for 'picking up bones' instead," Rasco looked at the old men. One of them finally couldn't hold back and let out a laugh. Not a loud laugh. His shoulders shook with silent laughter. The other was the same. The third leaned forward slightly on the bench and pressed a handkerchief to his eyes. (So that's what happened.) Rasco stood with an indescribable expression for a moment. Then, slowly, he closed his notebook. "...Is there a possibility I've been saying that every morning for three weeks?" "Probably," Rasco looked at the old men once more. They were no longer trying to hold back their laughter. For the first time, the old men's laughter spilled onto the stone pavement of the square. Emerald approached quietly and said something in Aile to the old men. The way they looked at her was different from how they looked at Rasco—it had a different kind of softness. Trust seemed to seep through. "I'm Emerald. I research the Aile language. Don't worry, it's not cooperation with the empire," She said this to Rasco in the imperial language. "If the accuracy of translations goes wrong, it's the Aile people who suffer later. I can at least help with pronunciation," Rasco thought for a moment. He couldn't find a reason to refuse. 　　◇ The two of them sat side by side on a stone bench beside the Tidal Pillar. Rasco opened his vocabulary survey notebook. Emerald's eyes fell on it. Within the first five minutes, Rasco's notebook had taken considerable damage. "This word—'Ura Pesu'—you've translated as 'the memory of the sea,'" "Yes, it's a word the old man used—" "'The pattern in the sand after the waves recede.' Not the memory of the sea. The pattern left on the beach after the waves pull back. It's about appearance. There's no concept of memory involved," Rasco stopped his pen. He made the correction. "What about this one, 'Naal Tai'? You've written 'the wisdom of fishermen,'" "Yes, but from the context—" "It's about the change in the smell of the tide felt before dawn. It's about bodily sensation. Reading the tide's movement through your sense of smell—the word refers to that act itself. Rather than wisdom... it's something where habit and sensation become one," Rasco made another correction. The arrows of revision multiplied on his notebook. (Is it really this different?) But now that she mentioned it, he understood. He could see a little of the reason the old men had remained silent with expressions that seemed to say "that's not quite right, but how do we explain it?" Rasco had thought they had some indescribable expression on their faces. But perhaps they—had been feeling all along the discomfort of something that didn't fit into words, of something being forced into language. As the corrections accumulated—three, four, and more—Rasco's posture gradually leaned forward. The way someone leans when acknowledging defeat but still wanting to listen. Whether Emerald noticed this or not was unclear. She continued matter-of-factly, but carefully. "Want to try practicing pronunciation too?" "...Please," Emerald produced a single Aile syllable. Soft, with a gentle upward lift. Rasco repeated it. It was slightly off. Emerald said, "Try producing the sound a bit further back." Rasco attempted it. The direction was right, but the length was a bit short. On the third try—one of the old men spun around. It apparently sounded like a different word. The old man looked at Rasco silently for a second, then turned back around. "That one became 'finger' instead of 'salt,'" "How does that work?" "If the tone is too low, it becomes a different word. Try lifting the sound a bit more," Fourth attempt. Fifth attempt. On the sixth, Emerald's mouth moved slightly. She was suppressing laughter. But it still came out. A small "kufuu" escaped from her throat. On the seventh, she burst out laughing completely. Soft giggles at first, but they spread gently across the stone pavement of the square. The old men caught the infection. A chain of laughter filled the square for the first time. Beneath the overcast sky, the sound was surprisingly light. Rasco said with complete seriousness: "Is it really that different?" Emerald's laughter deepened. A little tear glistened at the corner of her eye. Her golden eyes seemed to shift in the changing light. "It is. Completely different. But... you've been coming here every morning for three weeks to pick up bones. I'm moved by the generosity of spirit of everyone who kept accepting that," One of the old men shook his shoulders with a soft chuckle. Rasco looked at the old men once more. They were laughing. For the first time, he saw the old men laughing with expressions like this. It made him feel a little happy. 　　◇ When the laughter had subsided and normal time had returned to the square, Rasco hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Actually—I've been searching for a translation for the word 'Shal,'" Emerald's movements stopped. "Freedom, independence, autonomy—they're all close, but none of them quite reach it. Even when I confirm with the old men, they don't say any of them are wrong, but they don't affirm them either," Emerald stared at the list of translations in the notebook for a while. Then she looked up. Her voice had changed. It was still calm, but something with a core had entered it—something that wouldn't bend even if pulled. "Shal must not be translated," Rasco stopped, pen in hand. "What do you mean?" "Exactly what I said. Shal cannot be translated into the imperial language. There are words that cannot be translated—or rather, there are words that must not be translated," Something in Rasco quietly resisted. "But—" He paused, trying to choose his words. Rasco wanted to speak carefully. But he didn't want to be vague about this. "If there are words that can't be translated, then the work of translation itself collapses. Every word has a corresponding concept. That's the basis of translation. Even if the forms don't match, approximations should be possible—" "What collapses isn't translation. It's Shal," It was quiet. She wasn't angry. But she didn't waver. "The moment you force Shal into a translation, something is lost. It becomes something other than Shal. Not the imperial language's freedom, independence, or autonomy—the word 'autonomy' has imperial logic soaked into it. The concept of autonomy in service to the whole. Shal doesn't have that. The very question of 'whether to serve or not' isn't even contained in it," Rasco looked at his notebook. The character "autonomy" suddenly looked like something different. "But...if there's no translation, it can't be included in a dictionary. According to Tunglaat's—the Imperial Language Control Bureau's—policy, we're supposed to create a dictionary that replaces all Aile vocabulary with imperial language equivalents. We can't leave Shal blank," "When that dictionary is completed, have you ever thought about what the Aile people will lose?" Rasco couldn't answer. He had never thought about it. He hadn't tried to think about it. Making the dictionary was his job. Translation was his foundation. Emerald leaned forward to point at one of the translations in the notebook. The distance between them grew closer. R