One night, as rain lashed the harbor, a younger sailor asked them, half-shouting over the wind, "What do you do when you don't know what the right choice is?"
The Rotten-Heart hauled a rope taut and answered without drama. "You choose the one you're willing to remember."
The sailor laughed, breathless. "That's it?"
"That's all there ever was."
The storm passed.
Damage was assessed.
Repairs began without ceremony.
On the plateau, the child who had sat down stayed longer than anyone expected. They asked no more questions for days. When they finally spoke again, it was to say, "I think I know what I don't want to become."
Rhys nodded. "That's a beginning."
"For what?"
"For paying attention," he said.
They smiled, dissatisfied.
Good.
Years later—though no one marked when it happened—the plateau stopped being spoken of as a place people went.
It became a direction people referenced.
Not north or south.
Closer or farther.
