Not Westfall Haven. An older town. Spires of coral and streets of shell, windows glowing with green light. And moving through those streets, figures with her father’s walk, her mother’s hair, her own face on a stranger’s shoulders.
She rowed past the breakwater, the oars dipping without a splash. The harbor lanterns bled into the fog like drowned stars. Behind her, the town faded to a rumor. Ahead, only silence and the low, rhythmic breath of the tide. pro.cfw.sh
But Elara went to the old well behind the chandlery, the one her grandmother said led to nowhere. She dropped a stone. It never hit bottom. Not Westfall Haven
Then she saw it.
She rowed back to the harbor in silence. The fog lifted by the time she tied off the Stubborn Star . The town was awake now—bakers and net-menders and children chasing gulls. Normal. Safe. And moving through those streets, figures with her