Greybraid swept the dead vines from the workbench and laid out her first test ingredients. She needed to understand what had changed—why remedies that worked before now failed. She lined up three bowls and added the same moss powder to each one. To the first, she added well water. To the second, rainwater she'd collected last week. To the third, morning dew scraped from leaves. Each mixture turned the same lifeless gray. She leaned back and chewed her lip. The ingredients weren't the problem. Something in the process itself had broken when the whales left the sky. She dumped all three bowls into a waste bucket and pulled out her old recipe journal. If she wanted to brew one legendary potion, she first had to figure out what magic she'd lost. She flipped through the journal's stained pages, running her finger down ingredient lists. Every successful recipe from before mentioned sky water—the pure drops that fell when whales passed overhead. Her grandmother had always said regular water carried too much earth in it. Greybraid stood and searched the greenhouse shelves until she found it wedged behind a cracked pot. An ancient stone watering can, covered in worn carvings her grandmother had traced while telling stories. The old woman used to set it on the roof during whale migrations, collecting the mist that trailed behind them. Greybraid turned the heavy vessel in her hands. The whales were gone, but rain still fell from the same sky they'd swum through. She pushed open the greenhouse door and climbed onto an overturned crate, stretching to place the stone can on the slanted roof. If she was right about the water, her next batch would prove it. If she was wrong, at least she'd learned something true. The next morning brought clouds but no rain yet. Greybraid needed more than water experiments—she needed knowledge her grandmother never taught her. She walked through the forest until she spotted weathered purple wood between the trees. The old tea kiosk stood abandoned, its shelves still lined with dusty bottles and glass tubes. She stepped inside and found what she'd hoped for: rolled scrolls tucked behind rows of dried tea leaves. Her fingers trembled as she unrolled the first one. Recipes covered the brittle paper, written in her grandmother's hand and others she didn't recognize. One scroll listed ingredients she'd never combined before—moonbell root, silver moss, and water blessed by open sky. The instructions were faded, but she could read enough. She gathered the scrolls carefully and tucked them under her arm. Back in her greenhouse, she'd test each recipe until one proved itself worthy. The legendary potion was somewhere in these forgotten words.