It was just another day in Shallow Town—or so it seemed. The sun loomed behind thick, graying clouds, its rays struggling to pierce through the salt-stained mist that rolled in from the nearby harbor. A gentle sea breeze tugged at fishing nets and swayed the rickety signboards of weather-beaten shops. Townsfolk bustled about their morning routines: vendors haggled over crates of sardines and dried eel, children darted between the stalls playing tag, and sailors unloaded crates with tired groans, their boots thudding against the slick cobbles.
The air was thick with the scent of brine, old fish, woodsmoke, and sweat. Overhead, gulls circled lazily, cawing above the din of the bustling trade square. Wooden carts squeaked beneath the weight of goods, their wheels clattering against stones smoothed by years of sea salt and boot heels. The town had a rhythm—rough but familiar—a pulsing beat that echoed between old stone buildings and the swaying masts moored at the docks.
