You nod, and the man grins—his eyebrows doing a celebratory jig of their own. “Atta keener,” he says, then turns on his heel and begins to march away from the ferry dock, boots crunching over gravel and snow like a man on a mission. You follow, weaving through stacks of luggage, a rogue curling stone, and a woman arguing with a goose in a toque.

The path winds away from the port and into a thicket of spruce trees that seem to lean in as you pass, as if eavesdropping. The air grows colder, quieter, and somehow… syrupier?

Finally, you reach a clearing where a man sits cross-legged on a stump, sipping from a dented thermos. He wears a faded Rockies hoodie, mirrored sunglasses, and a belt made entirely of souvenir spoons. A loon feather is tucked behind one ear. He hums softly to himself—something haunting and familiar.

“Is he humming… Gordon Lightfoot?” you whisper.

The eyebrowed stranger nods. “Gordie often comes by here since he passed on. It's been lovely. But we always have one his songs istuck in our heada."

You smile, "I think that may be the most Canadian thing ever." You step forward.

The man looks up, his expression unreadable behind the mirrored lenses. He takes a long sip from his thermos, then says, in a low, melodic voice. “If you’re standin’ on the shoreline, and the wind begins to rise…”

You pause. Is that a warning or a weather report?

The eyebrowed stranger leans in. “That means he’s got the token. But you gotta earn it. He’s got a puzzle for ya.”

The man in the Rockies hoodie lifts the token high, letting it catch a glint of sunlight through the trees. Then, in a voice like gravel and poetry, he intones. “To earn this token, you must answer true. A riddle of the land, old but still useful.” He clears his throat, “I pierce the sky but cast no spell, I’ve stood through snow and summer’s swell. I’m not a tree, though birds fly by— I help you see, not touch, the sky.” He gestures to a nearby stump, where three options appear, carved into the wood in curling script: