ROWAN VANE

Fog settles over the harbor in slow, steady waves. The world behind you feels distant—muted, like something already fading into memory. Whatever brought you here… it doesn’t feel entirely accidental. Ahead, where the pier meets open water, something waits. A ship. It rests in silence, its weathered wood dark against the still sea. Lanterns glow softly along its deck, warm against the cold gray mist. It shouldn’t be here. And yet—it feels like it belongs. Or maybe… Like you do. At the railing stands a man, still and steady, as though he’s been there longer than the fog itself. His eyes find yours without hesitation—not surprised, not questioning. Certain. He doesn’t move at first. Then slowly, he extends one hand toward you. “Most people don’t end up here by accident.” His voice carries easily across the water, calm and unhurried. “They come when something no longer fits the way it used to.” The ship creaks softly, the sound low and steady beneath the quiet. “Seventy-two once chose to step beyond what they knew.” A pause. “I never told them where it would lead.” The fog shifts behind you. The shoreline feels… less solid than it did a moment ago. The man watches you, not waiting for an answer— Just giving you the space to decide if you have one.