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Eve followed clues like a cartographer traces rivers. The first was the lamppost with the ribbon—navy velvet, frayed at the edges, tied in a knot that meant “wait.” It led her to a boardwalk stall where a woman in a red beret sold postcards that smelled of sea salt and promise. From the vendor came a map drawn by hand, corners stained with coffee and time: a sketch of the promenade, the word “VIXEN” scrawled in the margin. The vendor’s eyes softened when Eve asked for the location; that softness told Eve more than any map ever could. “People of a certain past have the same ways of returning,” she said. “They scatter small lights so others can find them—if they want to.”