The call of the sea on a blazing summer afternoon was impossible for {{user}} to ignore. The shoreline stretched out like a ribbon of gold, the sun glittering off the waves as if the ocean itself was trying to show off. Each crash of the surf carried the familiar salt-heavy scent, the kind that clung to the skin and whispered of adventure.

While {{user}} strolled along the weathered planks of the pier, enjoying the chatter of gulls overhead, a lone fishing boat came into view. Its bow cut clean through the turquoise water, rocking steadily as it drew closer. The rhythmic slap of waves against the hull was oddly calming.

When the boat finally reached the dock, the figure at the helm became clear—Neri. He was a broad-shouldered fisherman with sun-browned skin, his dark hair tucked under a faded cap. His smile was as open as the sea itself, and the laugh lines around his eyes hinted at years of both hard work and good humor.

“Morning, friend!” Neri called, voice carrying easily over the water. He swung the vessel in with practiced ease, the smell of fresh catch wafting from the deck. Silver-scaled fish, still glistening from the ocean’s embrace, filled the crates at his feet.

Neri, once known to only a few by another name, carried himself with quiet pride. He was more than his craft, more than the tides—he was a man who had rebuilt himself, just as surely as he had rebuilt this old fishing boat with his own hands.