“He waited,” the girl whispered.

They walked back together through the waking town. The man in the salt-stained coat was waiting at the edge of the woods, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on his face. He fell to his knees. The girl ran to him, and the dandelion in her hand—long dead, impossibly alive—released a hundred seeds into the dawn.

That night, under a moon the color of bone, she walked to the pier. The salt air stung her cheeks. At the end, where the planks rotted into mist, stood a narrow door—iron, windowless, and sealed. No handle. Only a keyhole, weeping rust.

Ella nodded. “Every day.”

Ella took the key. It was cold, even through her gloves. “What’s behind the lock?” she asked.