The cane was heavier than it looked. Elara shifted her grip. The ash wood was smooth, worn down by another hand before hers. It hummed against her palm. Not a vibration of energy, but of memory. Every scratch told a story. Every polish marked a mile.
She walked away from the cliff. The Lighthouse of Roots disappeared behind the curve of the land. She didn't look back. Ezra had told her not to. The road is in front, he had said. The past is behind.
The path was overgrown. Grasses tickled her knees. Wildflowers blocked the way. She didn't cut them. She stepped over. The Earth was reclaiming the road. She was just a guest walking through a garden.
The first settlement was ten miles down the coast. A cluster of domes made from woven willow. Smoke rose from the center. Not black. White. Wood
