He had never been good at horse riding. His grandfather said that wasn't a flaw. "It just means your journey goes another way." At seventeen, Noah inherited the family's weathered rowing boat. Every spring he ferried visitors across the misty lake to an abandoned monastery. No one knew why they wanted to go. No one ever explained what they found there. They always returned smiling. One year, no passengers arrived. Instead, a single child waited on the dock carrying a notebook. "I've come for lessons." "I'm only the ferryman." "So was your grandfather." During the crossing, the child pointed to ripples on the water. "They're saying something." "They always do." "What?" "I've never understood." At the monastery, the monks listened to the lake for hours without speaking. When they finally rose, the oldest monk handed Noah a page filled with strange symbols. "You've been hearing this your whole life," he said. "You simply never realised it was language." Noah spent the summer learning. Not words exactly, but currents, echoes and birdsong woven together into meaning. When autumn arrived, he crossed back to the mainland. The villagers rushed to greet him, asking what he'd discovered. He opened his mouth. Then stopped. There were no words left that quite fit. By the time the boat returned, everyone on shore had learned a new language.