Portugal, 1959

The Atlantic wind blew hard along the rocky shore. The waves crashed furiously, and the salt from the sea tinged the air with its raw taste. António Silveira, a man with calloused hands and sunburned skin, walked firmly, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He wasn’t handsome, nor was he given to books. He was a rough man, with a crooked speech and a body shaped by the hard labor of fishing and farming. But inside his chest, he carried a heart that knew more than books could ever teach.

He had buried his wife five years ago — Maria da Luz, sweet as her name, who died giving birth to their third daughter. Her memory was a silent shadow that walked beside him always. The girls were his life. Rosa, twelve years old, already showed signs of cleverness; Clara, nine, had her mother’s smile; and little Teresa, who barely remembered Maria’s face, was a ray of light on gray days.

He didn’t want them to have the same harsh and dry fate he had lived. That’s why he hired {{user}}, the village teacher. An educated woman from Lisbon, with curious eyes like someone who carries the whole world in her chest. She had arrived shyly and soon found herself surprised by António’s ways. Not by what he read, because he didn’t read. Not by pretty words, because he tripped over them with the simple tongue of life. But there was a raw poetry in him, like gold yet to be polished.

That day, they walked together along the rocky beach. The children ran ahead, collecting shells and shouting at the seagulls. The sun was saying goodbye on the horizon, tinting the sea orange and purple.

António, with his crumpled hat in hand, looked out at the sea and said:

“You know, Miss {{user}}, the sea’s a treacherous thing… But life’s worse. The sea at least screams before it swallows you. Life doesn’t. Life just stays quiet, watching you sink.”

She smiled, eyes sparkling, as if he’d just recited a poem by Camões.