Meena fried anchovies that tasted faintly of iodine and heat.
“This one’s the last batch,” she said, not looking up.
Ravi reached for a piece. “The sea smells different now,” he said.
“Rotten?”
“No. Like something gone too long in the sun.”
The fan creaked above them. They chewed in silence.
A photo of their old boat hung crooked on the wall, the glass fogged with salt. In the shed, the nets lay folded like shrouds, untouched since July.
“The fish are deeper now,” Meena said. “Or dead. Hard to tell.”
Ravi looked out at the dull orange horizon.
“They won’t come back, will they?”
“No,” she said. “Not this time.”
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