Mira steps out from behind the wheel housing, her boots scraping wet stone. The Keeper doesn't flinch — just tilts the open satchel slightly toward her, patient as a held breath. Inside, nestled against worn leather, she finds three things: a folded map dense with the same strange lettering; a small glass vial filled with something that catches the light like liquid amber; and a single dried leaf pressed flat, its veins traced carefully in ink that matches the carvings on the oak. The Keeper watches her face as she looks, reading something in her expression. "You were sent here too," they say — not a question. The lantern swings in the afternoon breeze, casting shifting shadows across the moss-dark stones. The waterwheel stays still, waiting.