She had never forgiven the village for making money out of her family’s grief. Her father had not become a memory there. He had become a story, then a symbol, then a way to coax coins out of tourists. By the time Nora left for studies and then work, she distrusted not only the legend but everyone who kept spouting it.
That was one reason she stayed away so long. Every time she came home, she found some fresh little trace of the myth still being fed: a painted sign, a joke in bad taste, or a visitor asking where the fisherman had vanished. Distance had become easier than rage.