On the island of Uzonn, Tuesdays congeal like mist on moss. Forty-three years have surrendered to this stuck cadence. The air is heavy with the scent of blooming kalindi flowers, their petals unfolding like tiny, crumpled maps. In the stillness, the island's inhabitants have grown adept at listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the shore, a soothing susurration that calms the mind. As the sun sets, the sky is set aflame, a kaleidoscope of pinks and oranges that seems to sear itself into the retina. In this eerie, timeless world, the passage of time is measured only by the slow, incremental growth of the island's twisted, uzonn-scarred trees.