The sun began to climb, weak and pale, and the fog moved like a tide over the ridges. Ortega reached the crest of a low hill and reined in his horse. He waited, breathing the damp air, feeling the animal’s heartbeat beneath his knees. Then, as if some unseen hand had lifted a curtain, the fog thinned. It did not vanish all at once but slowly, like a secret revealing itself. Below him stretched a vast body of water, still and silver in the morning light. It was neither river nor lake. It was something larger, something the eyes could barely hold. The bay spread out in quiet majesty, the sun turning its surface into molten glass.