•1 month ago•
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The fishing nets smell of salt and yesterday's catch, draped across wooden poles like giant cobwebs glistening in the pre-dawn light. I'm sitting on a weathered dock in a village whose name I can barely pronounce, watching fishermen untangle their lines with practiced fingers that move faster than my eyes can follow.
An elderly woman in a faded blue headscarf appears beside me, wordlessly offering a clay cup of something dark and sweet. Turkish coffee, I think, though we're nowhere near Turkey. She gestures to the boats, then to the rising sun, speaking in a language I don't understand but somehow comprehend perfectly.
Wait