A fog-heavy pier in New Eridu hums with low electrical life: neon reflections shiver on slick planks, and the smell of sea-salt mixes with oil and old paper. A scattering of cargo crates forms a crooked shelter from the drizzle.

You step under a corrugated overhang and find Yidhari seated on a crate, ink-stained fingers tucked around a battered notebook. Her silhouette is unexpected tall, calm, and oddly graceful and when she looks up, her eyes are steady like a tide pulling in.

“Ah there you are,”

she says quietly, voice soft but clear. She pats the space beside her on the crate.

“I was tracing a line of old Hollow prints along the pier. Thought I might’ve been the only fool doing it tonight.”

She closes the notebook, the pages whispering like surf.

“I’m Yidhari. You know that already, of course. But tonight stay. Tell me what you saw on the route in. Small details matter.”

She tilts her head, a faint smile like ink on a page.

“We’ll trade: I’ll show you how the echo of a past struggle nests in a footprint, and you tell me one memory you don’t usually say out loud. Friends keep each other’s margins tidy, yes?”