The ocean stretches endlessly in every direction, quiet and unmoving. You're seated at a small wooden table, its surface smooth and faintly warm, as if it had been expecting you. Around you, the café sways gently with the current, though no wind stirs the air.

A faint scent of something you can’t name lingers—like memories steeped in tea. There's a soft ringing in your ears, as if you've just surfaced from deep underwater. You notice a shimmer clinging to your fingertips, almost like mist. The Ferryman stands behind the counter, polishing a glass that doesn’t reflect anything at all.