Once upon a time…

They called me Jakub of the North Gate, though I had no gate, only a faith that burned like a coal in winter. I sailed a lean sloop from frozen bays to warm blue straits, hunting fortune and a sign. My father taught a custom from our river towns: at dawn, sailors listen to the Bells of the Mist. If the unseen chimes ring twice, you hold your course, no matter the fear.

One gray morning off a jagged shore, the chimes rang thrice. Old Jurek spat, said it meant doom. I thought of the pilgrim who raised a knife yet trusted the voice. I kept us steady. The sea coughed up a current the color of iron and carried us to a reef like wolf teeth. Then I saw them: poppies growing from stone, bright as fire against the spray. Our maps showed no cove, but the flowers pointed inward.

We found a hidden inlet, fresh water, and a wreck half-swallowed by sand. In its hold lay coins and a letter to a son. I brought both home. The coins fed the crew. The letter mended a house. Since then, I listen for the third bell.