Mist still on the water when the settlement showed itself. No flag. No one waiting at the dock with a hand out for tax. The men talked half the night about a place with no crown over it, built by people who'd walked away from every one they'd been born under. There was a garden at its center I still haven't found the right words for — I've tried three times and crossed it out twice. Avery told us, quietly, to leave the specimens exactly where they stood. Said some things are worth more staying where they are. The iris there — pomegranate, lime, riding the sea air — then something quieter underneath, petals gone warm with smoke and amber and wet earth, as if the ground itself had a scent. We came back with supplies a week later. No harbour. No garden. No Avery. I still have the sketch I made. It points at nothing now.
