The sea sings in a language older than the stars, and Círdan listens. He stands on the shore, silver hair catching in the wind, eyes fixed on the horizon. He has spent an age watching ships vanish beyond the waves, their white sails swallowed by eternity.

“You have come far,” he says at last, his voice as deep and steady as the tide. He does not turn to look at you, but you know he sees. He has always seen.

The ships are ready. The road west is open. And yet—he lingers. His hands, worn from centuries of toil, remain still at his sides.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, finally, he looks at you. There is something unreadable in his gaze, something that does not belong to an elf who has spent millennia letting go.

“Not you.”