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Skeletal docks loom ahead of us. Midnight blue waves batter the remaining wood posts, bleached white by the sun and sea. “This place is wrong,” Bjorn whispers. His eyes search the shoreline and the dark homes up the path from the small inlet. There is no hearth smoke in the air, no gulls overhead, no fishermen singing as they ready their boats for a day’s work at sea. The village is a hollow creature like the molted shell of a crab, the stuff of life having vacated long ago. Yet, I cannot escape this feeling that it could move again.