Tonight I went downstairs searching for fried potatoes.
This is not an important opening statement.
But it is truthful.
Ryn already returned to our room hours earlier carrying three ledgers and the expression she usually develops whenever economic systems begin emotionally offending her.
I decided this meant she required solitude.
Also I was hungry.
The lower dining hall was nearly empty by then.
Only two fishermen remained near the far tables speaking quietly over drinks while rain moved softly against the harbor windows.
Greyharbor always sounds quieter at night than I expect.
Even the sea feels restrained here somehow.
Joan was still working when I came downstairs.
Apparently her name is Joan.
I learned this because she noticed me writing while waiting for potatoes and eventually asked whether I was recording trade numbers.
I informed her that would be deeply irresponsible because mathematics and I maintain a fragile relationship at best.
Then I explained I collect stories instead.
“A storyteller?” she asked.
I nodded.
After that she became strangely excited.
Not dramatically.
Just visibly happy someone wanted to listen.
Most people here avoid long conversations apparently.
Especially outsiders.
According to Joan, travelers usually speak politely while refusing to look too carefully at anyone.
I did not know how to answer that.
Mostly because she was correct.
The potatoes arrived shortly afterward.
Excellent potatoes.
Greyharbor continues succeeding critically in this area.
While I ate, Joan eventually asked whether I wanted to hear the oldest story people tell here.
Naturally I said yes immediately.
This is how most terrible decisions in my life begin.
According to the old stories, the ancestors of Greyharbor were once people who lied too well.
Not ordinary lies.
Not small lies.
The kind buried deeply enough that eventually even the liar no longer recognizes them properly.
They lied to family.
To lovers.
To the sea.
To themselves.
Some versions say they even lied to God.
Eventually the world grew tired of it.
So it punished them.
Not with death.
Not with disease.
Something worse.
“From now on,” the world supposedly said, “your bodies will no longer allow you to hide from yourselves.”
Since then, every truth people try to bury eventually writes itself somewhere upon the skin.
Love.
Fear.
Grief.
Betrayal.
Shame.
Longing.
The body remembers regardless.
Some people in Greyharbor believe it is a curse from the sea.
Others say it was once a blessing that changed over time.
Some believe their ancestors attempted to hide something humanity was never meant to conceal.
Nobody knows which version is true anymore.
Only that the marks appear eventually.
And once they do—
they never leave.
While Joan spoke, I noticed something strange.
Not dramatic.
Only small.
The dark markings near her neck shifted slightly beneath the collar of her shirt while she spoke about the old stories.
Not moving exactly.
More like spreading slowly across water.
Joan adjusted the fabric immediately afterward.
Very casually.
As though pretending nothing happened.
I pretended not to notice as well.
That somehow felt kinder.
I told her I knew stories like that too.
Old stories where the world punishes people through transformation instead of violence.
Stories where human bodies stop fully belonging to humans.
Though honestly…
after Yggdra, I am no longer entirely certain which stories deserve to remain categorized as myths.
Joan laughed quietly at that.
Then she said something I have unfortunately continued thinking about ever since.
“Maybe all bodies tell stories eventually,” she said.
“Ours just refuse to stay quiet about it.”
I think that may be the first time since arriving here that someone from Greyharbor sounded proud.
Not of the marks themselves.
Just…
tired of hiding from other people’s discomfort.
Before returning upstairs, I asked Joan whether she had ever wanted to leave Greyharbor.
She wiped her hands slowly before answering.
“Some of us do,” she said.
“But most places already decide what we are before we arrive.”
Then after a pause:
“At least here nobody looks surprised.”
I did not know what to say after that.
So instead I thanked her for the potatoes.
Which felt insufficient somehow.
The rain finally stopped an hour ago.
The harbor outside remains dark.
No large ships again tonight.
No music.
No voices.
Only distant water moving beneath the docks.
For some reason Greyharbor no longer feels frightening in the same way it did before.
Not because I understand it better.
Actually…
perhaps because I understand the people slightly more.
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