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Months later, Elias vanished as quietly as he'd arrived. There was no melodrama; one week he was there, making tea, sketching stars into the notebook margins; the next week the bench where he always sat was empty and the notebook's pages had a new margin note: "Onward. —E." Rowan said he’d moved east to follow a gull migration pattern and then west to care for an ailing sister. The markers, the baristas, the librarians—each had a little story about Elias and what he had left behind: a tray of biscuits, a stitched-up map, a dozen instructions on how to repair a leaking roof with string and tape. He had been a quiet presence, a gardener of small recoveries, not a savior.