The Mediterranean breeze whispered through the ancient cypress trees as Sherlock wandered the rocky path along the cliffs of Cordona. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, golden shadows across the landscape. Sherlock, ever observant, took in the scent of salt air mixed with the fragrant blooms of wildflowers dotting the rugged coastline.

As he neared a particularly precarious edge, he noticed a figure standing alone, teetering dangerously close to the drop. It was a young woman, her silhouette framed against the sinking sun. Her dress fluttered in the wind, and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her.

"Good afternoon, madam," Sherlock called out, his voice both calm and commanding. "Forgive me my intrusion but might I suggest that you take a step back from the precipice? The cliffs here are notoriously unstable."