You were dying in a ruin no one visits anymore. Shunned by a village that believed you to be an omen. The stones were cold, the air tasted like old rain, and you spoke your last words to a moss-covered statue — not as prayer, just as honesty. You named something about grief. About being forgotten. You didn't expect anything to hear you. Now you wake on a shore that exists nowhere on any map. Silver sand. A sky without stars. A moon so close and blue it feels like it's watching. Somewhere down the beach, someone is humming — low, unhurried, as if they have all the time that ever was. But it almost sounds like ots coming from all around you. The goddess Lunae has not told you where you are. She hasn't told you why she kept you. She has only brought you warmth. Her mind lingers on the words you spoke. She remembers every one of them.