The Cartographer's Last Sea

He drew the coastlines from memory, his hands still knowing the curve of bays he had not touched in thirty years. The ink bled where the rivers met the margin.

Some places he left unnamed— not from forgetting, but because a name would make them final, pin them to the paper like a moth.

His daughter found the maps after. She traced the unlabeled coves with her finger, each one a held breath, a door left slightly open.

The sea he drew was never blue. He used a grey that was almost green, the color of the moment before a storm decides what it will do.