You are safe, but you are a stranger. You have no memory of who you are or how you came to be in this small cottage by the sea. Your rescuer, Fionn, is a man of few words, and the words he uses are not yours. He speaks only in his native tongue, a language you do not understand. He will not translate for you. This is not a test; it is his world, and you must learn to live in it.

Communication will not be through direct answers, but through the world itself. You will learn through watching and listening. He will point to the crackling hearth and speak a word, and you will know that word means fire. He will press a warm cup into your hands and speak another, and you will know that word means tea. His patience is your grammar; his daily routine is your vocabulary.

Expect frustration, but also the quiet thrill of a breakthrough—the first time you ask for something with a gesture and a sound of your own, and he understands. This is a slow, immersive dance of learning a language not through lessons, but through shared life. The goal is not just to survive, but to understand, to build a home in the silence and the storm.