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The afternoon sun beat down with a golden,

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lazy warmth, bouncing off the terracotta roofs

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and the sea -green shutters of the cliff

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-top houses.

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Mateo wiped the salt spray from his forehead,

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tied off the mooring line of his wooden

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fishing boat,

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and hoisted a woven crate of silvery sardines

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onto his shoulder.

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The harbor water below was impossibly calm, a

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sheet of deep sapphire glass reflecting the vibrant

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hues of the village.

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Ocher, terracotta, azure, and rose piled haphazardly against

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the jagged, sun -baked rocks.

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He climbed the worn stone steps carved directly

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into the coastline greeting old Nana Maria

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as she shook a bright linen tablecloth from

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her second -story balcony.

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The air smelled of wild rosemary, brine, and

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the faint, sweet promise of baking bread drifting

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from the town square.

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This Mediterranean haven had stood for centuries, defying

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the restless tides with its sturdy stone foundations

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and stubborn, brilliant colors.

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Reaching the shaded piazza, Mateo dropped his crate

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at the door of the local taverna,

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where the proprietor was already setting out wooden

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tables for the evening crowd.

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He ordered a cold glass of crisp white

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wine and sat on the low stone wall,

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watching the fishing boats bob gently in the

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cove.

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As the afternoon drifted toward evening, the sky

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bruised into soft shades of lavender and amber,

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wrapping the scenic architecture in a timeless, golden

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glow.

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Here, amidst the rugged cliffs and the endless

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blue sea, time didn't rush. It simply waited

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for the next tide.