He worked in silence. First, he rinsed the glass with the rum and let it coat the inside like a ghost. Then he placed the rosemary at the bottom, not as a garnish but as a root. He added the salt—not for flavor, but for grit. Finally, he poured a measure of plain, room-temperature water from a ceramic carafe that never touched the tap.

He left twenty dollars on the bar—too much for water, too little for a miracle. Elara pocketed it for the “Repack Fund,” which was just a coffee can labeled Emergency Rosemary .

“It’s a repack,” Leo said. “It doesn’t sober you up. It doesn’t get you drunk. It unpacks the person you were when you walked in and repacks you as someone who can walk out.”