“If you're fine there's something wrong with you,” William says, realizing as the words leave his mouth that the irony's probably lost in translation. He shrugs by way of apology, diverts the light to Koushirou's shoes, his clothes—trying to make a guess at the kid's well-being from how mud- and blood-caked they are.

As for the question, he sighs. Switches off the radio, though of course that makes no difference—it squeals a little with feedback and keeps on hissing. The answer, the real answer, is that he's afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid they'll open it and there'll be nothing there. Not that the grave will be empty—that they'll strain and strain and lift the lid off a void.

He can't say that.

He scratches a hand—the wrong hand, his arm twinges with pain—through his hair. “Because someone built these buildings. Someone wrote on that wall. Someone made this, this tomb. I need to know, I just—” He turns away from Koushirou, extinguishes the flashlight. “I can't do this with you. There could be anything.”