Eomi Grace stopped copying the tally board when they heard the voice behind them say their old name. Not the name they'd signed on seventeen pages of forms. The name from before. The one they couldn't remember but recognized anyway, the way you recognize a scar you've forgotten earning. They turned slowly, their faceless reflection sliding across the wet metal of the engine housing. The stranger stood at the far end of the market boardwalk, where the planks met solid ground. She wore traveling clothes, mud-stained at the knees. Her face was entirely her own. "I know what you looked like," the stranger said. "Before they took it." Eomi counted the boards between them. Twelve. They did not move closer. "I have documentation," the stranger continued. She held up a leather case, water-marked and old. "Photographs. Identification papers. A Mirror Courts intake form with your signature — the real one, not the diplomatic seal you use now." Eomi's hands went still at their sides. They had been looking for passenger records. They had not expected this. "What do you want?" The stranger smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "The name you won't say aloud. The one you're afraid to get wrong." Eomi felt something crack inside their chest, small and sharp as breaking glass. The stranger knew about the half-remembered name. She knew it mattered. "That's not for sale," Eomi said. The stranger tucked the leather case back into her coat. "Then neither is your face." She turned and walked into the swamp, leaving Eomi standing alone on the boardwalk with twelve planks between them and the truth they'd been preparing themselves to find. Now they knew someone else was searching too — and they knew exactly what it would cost to look back. Eomi waited until the stranger disappeared into the fog. Then they walked back to their quarters and pulled the photo album from beneath their cot. The elegant binding was coming loose at the corners. Inside, every photograph showed blank spaces where faces should have been. Every identification card held empty frames. But the handwriting on the labels remained — dates, places, names written in ink that hadn't faded. They had kept it because the handwriting was theirs, even if they couldn't prove it. Because someone had cared enough to write those labels. Because losing it would mean admitting the person who made it never existed at all. Now someone wanted the name that connected everything. The only piece that might make those blank photographs mean something again. Eomi closed the album and put it back under the cot. They would not trade it. But they would find out who that stranger worked for, and why someone else wanted Eomi's past erased as badly as the Mirror Courts did. The passenger records could wait. This was closer. This was now. The next morning, Eomi found fresh tire tracks near the market boardwalk. Wide treads, deep grooves. The kind of vehicle built for rough terrain. The stranger had arrived in something powerful enough to cross the swamp without using the train. That meant resources. That meant organization. Eomi followed the tracks east until they disappeared into a patch of standing water. They crouched and touched the mud at the edge. Still soft. Recent. Someone had known where to find them. Someone had known about the album. And someone had known the one price Eomi couldn't pay. They stood and brushed the mud from their hands. The stranger would be back. People who offered truth and then took it away always came back. But next time, Eomi would be ready with questions of their own.