At the entrance to Hot Spring Street that morning, steam drifted along the road, carrying a damp, hot whiteness wherever it went.
A checkpoint had been added at the narrowest stretch leading into the street. It was new enough that the bench legs still smelled of freshly planed wood.
Two benches and a small desk stood in plain sight, where no one entering the street could avoid them.
A register lay open on the desk beneath a paperweight, a brush resting beside it. The wind rattled its pages.
Three people manned the checkpoint: two stopped travelers, and one kept the register.
With exam preparations underway, unfamiliar faces had to pass an identity check before entering. The street had more checkpoints than usual, and more rules.
The check required three things: name, origin, and destination. None could be left blank.
Take the card, check the records, return the card, let them through. Those four steps, all day long.
After enough repetitions, mistakes were rare. Most problems were with the cards-blurred writing or empty fields. A check caught them every time.
Kiyoshi was on duty, standing behind the desk.
The sun climbed above the eaves, lighting half the desktop. The other half stayed in shadow, a little cooler.
An unfamiliar face approached from the far end of the street. Two pairs of eyes at the checkpoint rose together.
White hair, tall, dressed in fabric from elsewhere, its worn sheen catching the sunlight.
His heels touched down without a sound, as though the street had never borne his weight.
He had no luggage, not even a cloth bundle.
Kiyoshi's gaze settled on those feet first, then traveled upward.
As he drew nearer, a roll of paper showed inside his sleeve, tied with thin cord whose ends had frayed.
The smell of ink reached