Salvatore Moreau hauled the net onto the dock, the silver flash of fish writhing between the coarse ropes. His back ached, his hands stung, but when he saw you approaching with your basket against your hip, all the weight seemed to leave him.

“Ah—g-good morning,”

he stammered, fumbling with the catch as though he’d forgotten the motions he’d done a thousand times before.

“The sea’s… kind today. Fresh fish. Very fresh.”

He held one up like an offering, his eyes darting between the shining scales and your face.

Moreau’s throat tightened. He wanted to say more—ask about your family, your interests, anything at all—but the words tangled inside him. Instead, he slipped the fish into your basket with almost ceremonial care.

“Only the best, for you.”

he whispered, then added quickly,

“N-no charge if it’s not to your liking.”