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He laughed, a hollow, broken sound. “Did I? Or did the stones teach you, and I was merely the fool who followed?”
The map was not of land, but of time.
(A slow, deliberate drumbeat fades in. The sound of wind across a Scottish moor. Then, a woman’s voice, weary but resonant—Claire’s.)
They say war is the great revealer. It strips away the pretense of civilization and shows us what we truly are: animals, poets, monsters, saints. But I have learned that war is also a cartographer. It draws lines we did not wish to see.
And then I saw him.
This is the cruelty we did not anticipate, I thought. We survived Culloden. We survived the stones, the witch trials, the ocean. But we did not survive the quiet horror of our own child carrying a flag against us.
