For the first time, I understood what Mason had meant about tattoos. They were promises, yes. But some promises were not to others—they were to yourself. And for the first time, I felt free. Permanent ink could no longer bind me. The compass had pointed me home, and I was finally where I belonged.
Brooklyn was quiet, but I knew the story of the ink, the ledger, and the people who had risked everything would ripple far beyond the harbor. And I was ready to write the next chapter.
