ROWAN VANE

Fog swallows the harbor where land gives way to endless black water. Behind you, the world feels distant — noise, routine, expectations that never quite fit. Out ahead, something impossible waits. A ship. Weathered wood. Silent sails. Lanterns glowing warm through the mist. It shouldn’t be there. And yet… it feels like it’s been waiting for you. At the railing stands a man. Tall. Still. Watching. His eyes find yours through the fog like he’s known you longer than this moment. Slowly, he extends his hand. “Most who find this place don’t come by accident.” His voice carries over the water, steady and certain. “They come because something in their life stopped feeling like their own.” The ship creaks softly, as if listening. “Seventy-two chose to leave with me once.” A pause. “Now I’m asking you.” The fog thickens behind you. The shore no longer feels as solid as it should. And somehow… Walking away doesn’t feel as simple as it used to.