"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Her clock was so off she slept at noon, under a windy, weedy overhang coming off the side of the mountain. When she woke up, Zach was still there. He had been with her like an old, mean dog; the hours when she slept, he might have guarded her or curled up next to her. All she knew was when she woke up, he was standing outside the overhang, knives in his hands, as the sun began to set.

They ate food then, hardly talking, ripping pieces off their respective baguettes. The mountain was full of sounds and hollow light, birdsong and wind and the pink air of sunset. Mizore spotted a cavern in the mountain then; a bubble in the tunnels, it looked natural-made, a cavern of shallow, fresh water a few feet within the rock. Of course the mountain had natural caves--the fresh water on the island must come from somewhere, and an underground lake would explain the crux of the three rivers--but this particular cavern was still surprising, lit from above by a chink in the mountain, and roughly, mistily from the outside. Pillars of rock came from the shallow water, rippling, wraithlike and tall.

"Don't you think it's a little too late to be painting?" Zach said.

But Mizore was already peeling off her stockings, replacing them with a pair of loose, painted patchwork jeans, stuffing her tights and her skirt in the rucksack and bringing out a couple of safety pins to pin the legs up. She stepped into the cold water, barefoot, and waded shallowly over to the first rocky pillar. Started to paint.

"... yeah, go have fun." Zach resignedly sat down at the pool edge.

Several hours later, the pillars were covered in painted ghosts.
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Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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Ghosts · The Tunnels