Kael laughed. But the next morning, he set out.

Next, he climbed the hill to Elder Venn’s hut. Venn was blind, but she tended a garden that bloomed year-round. She was kneeling in the soil, humming. “Ah, loyetu ,” she said, wiping dirt on her apron. “Stand there. Don’t move.”

One evening, a storm swept Misthaven. The rope bridges snapped. Three fishing boats sank. And Kael, who had only ever mapped places, found himself wading into the flood with the villagers—passing stones, holding children on his shoulders, tearing his own shirt into bandages.

Sorya laughed. “Then you’ve finally understood.”

First, he visited Old Man Hark, who wove baskets from weeping willow branches. “What is loyetu ?” Kael asked, pen poised.

Kael wrote: Nostalgic repair.