In the far southern edge of a quiet country where the land curved gently into a restless sea, there stood a village that maps often forgot, its low whitewashed houses huddled close to the shore with clay roofs chipped by wind and salt. The fishermen rose before dawn, pushed their narrow wooden boats into the gray water while the sky was still the color of wet slate, and returned before dusk with their catch of mackerel, sardines, and the occasional grouper, enough to feed families and sell a little at the weekly market three villages away.
