On the third day, they took the ferry from Kyle of Lochalsh to Skye. The sea was slate-grey, the mountains on the horizon black as basalt. As the island rose before them, Elias felt something crack open in his chest—not pain, but release.
He walked to the edge. His legs ached. His heart fluttered. But he was there.
Then, with a final lurch, they crested the ridge.
Mina didn’t argue. She didn’t say you’re too sick or it’s too far . She just said, “I’ll drive.”
