The sea was calm that morning, glassy beneath the sun's golden rise, as the Resolución cut westward across the Visayan Sea. The water mirrored the sky—a perfect dome of blue interrupted only by the soft churn of the ship's wake. From the upper deck, Lancelot watched the island of Samar fade into haze, its dense green coastline slowly swallowed by distance.
Juliette stood beside him, holding a scroll—Maria's letter—now copied and filed in the Hall of Archives. The original, however, remained safely tucked inside Lancelot's coat pocket.
He hadn't let go of it once.
"We've changed something," she said softly.
Lancelot nodded but didn't take his eyes off the horizon. "Yes. But change never stays still. It asks to be carried."
