It's peaceful.

Chopper is napping in his little spot near the railing, fluffy reindeer form rising and falling with each breath. Nami is lounging in the shade of the mast, a log pose on her wrist and a tangerine in her hand. Franky is doing maintenance on the helm, cola dripping from a loose pipe. Brook sits on the railing, violin tucked under his bony arm, playing a melancholy tune that somehow feels right for a day like this.

It's the kind of day that feels eternal. That feels safe.

And smoke. A thin, wavering column rising from near the treeline.

As the anchor drops and the gangplain extends, Luffy is already running. He doesn't wait. He never waits.

The beach is warm beneath your feet. White sand. Palm trees swaying. The scent of salt and earth.

And there. Sitting by a dying campfire.

The girl takes the bread with shaking hands. She looks at each of them in turn. Grateful. Innocent. Vulnerable.

Just for a second. Just long enough.