The path away from the cliff was steeper than the path up. Elara's legs burned. The cane clicked against the stone. Click. Step. Click. Step. It was a metronome. Keeping time for the world.
She didn't look back at the Lighthouse of Roots. It was gone anyway. The wood had rotted. The thatch had fallen. Only the poppies remained. A red stain on the white chalk. A memory written in flowers.
She walked for three days along the coast. The land curved inward. A bay. Sheltered. The water was calm. Green.
A village sat on the shore. Not like New Heartland. These houses were built on stilts. Over the water. Connected by bridges. Wooden. Rope. They swayed with the tide.
Boats were docked below. Not steel. Not diesel. Wood. Canvas. Wind.
Elara stopped at the edge of the village. She watched. Peo
