She saw ships battered by storm, wooden hulls groaning against relentless waves. She saw survivors crawling ashore onto the rocky coast, exhausted but alive.

  They built huts from driftwood and stone. They planted stubborn seeds into stubborn soil. They named the place Merrow’s End because it felt like the end of everything—and the beginning of something new.

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  The stone remembered them.

  Images shifted. Furious tempests tore at the cliffs. Waves crashed high enough to swallow entire homes.

  Yet the villagers rebuilt every time.

  Children were born. Bells rang in celebration. Lanterns flickered warmly against long winter nights.

  The humming was not sorrowful.

  It was resilient.