Daniel gestured to a chair. “I try. What’s missing?”
He labeled it: The Way Home.
The trouble began on a Tuesday in November, when a woman named Elara Vance walked into the library. She was in her late forties, with rain-darkened hair and eyes the color of bruised plums. She carried no umbrella, only a small wooden box clutched to her chest like a shield.
That night, he dreamed of a small girl in a white dress, standing at the edge of a dark pool. She was not crying. She was pointing. Not at him, but past him—toward a horizon he could not yet see.
Elara stood. For the first time, she smiled—a small, broken thing, but real. “Then thank you, Cartographer.”