We hold the line until the tide turns, remembering only what we built.
A town of black stone and salt wind, waiting under a moon that remembers everything.
Where the road always meets the coffee, and the journey always slows down.
Where the dark comfort of the Keep meets the relentless yield of the loam.
Cut from dark rock and pointed at a grey sea, it holds because it has to.
A threshold carved in stone, waiting for the sky to break open.
We wait here, where the stars gave up the chase.