The far southern edge of a quiet country curved gently into a restless sea, where the land met water in a long, slow sigh. Here lay a village that maps often forgot. No roads of note led to it; the nearest highway turned inland thirty kilometers north, and the coastal track was little more than two wheel-ruts worn into sandy soil by generations of ox-carts and the occasional motorcycle. The houses were low and whitewashed, their walls patched yearly with lime to keep the salt from eating the mud-brick. Roofs of red clay tile, chipped by wind and the occasional cyclone,
