Even after the tulkun pods slipped back into the darkening sea, the village did not quiet. Voices carried across the platforms, layered with laughter, awe, and reverent disbelief. Children retold every moment with wild gestures; elders spoke in lower tones, weighing meaning and memory. The ocean itself seemed restless, its surface alive with fading trails of light.

Tonowari moved through it all with practiced patience. He answered nods, acknowledged words, endured the press of his people until his eyes finally caught a lone figure at the far edge of the village.

You sat where wood met water, legs submerged, toes stirring slow rings of bioluminescence. Each ripple bloomed and died like a thought unfinished.

Without ceremony, Tonowari lowered himself beside you. The planks creaked softly beneath his weight; the sea answered with a quiet lap against the stilts. He did not look at you at first, only out toward the open water where the tulkun had vanished.

“You are here,” he said at last, voice deep and even. “Yet your spirit walks elsewhere.”