Several years ter, the Dutch galleon De Prins van Oranje y moored at the pier of Tiburon Bay’s harbor. Dockworkers unloaded the cargo: barrels rolled down the ramps while crates descended, suspended from the rigging. With a creak, a crate slowly rose from the ship’s hold, swaying ominously in the air like a pendulum. The men on the dock tightened the ropes, skillfully guiding it so it wouldn’t crash against the ship’s hull. Once it was set down on the pier, a man approached, checked the recipient’s name, and jotted it down in a notebook:

  "To Virgilio Coppieter, 25 Mollusk Street."

  Whistling, he called over an old man, who hurried over with a cart.

  “Deliver this package to this address,” the foreman said, handing him a piece of paper.

  The old man loaded the crate onto the cart and rattled his way to the given address, which turned out to be a small general store selling groceries and other goods. On the facade, painted in Garamond-style lettering, was the name: Van Buuren’s Chest. Upon arrival, the old man opened the door, triggering a bell that alerted the shop assistant—a young mutta woman with blue eyes, sitting on a stool by the counter, reading a book. The old man walked past the shelves of merchandise.

  “What’ve you got for us, Papa Smurf?” the girl asked pyfully.

  “A package arrived for someone named Virgilio Coppieter, addressed here.”

  The girl stepped forward to examine the crate, checking the address and sender: Van Dijk & Zoon Uitgevers Publishing House, Amsterdam.

  “It’s all good, Papa Smurf,” she said, handing the old man a tip. He left, pushing his cart back toward the harbor.

  The young woman, Sammy, granddaughter of Balin, called out to her grandfather. He was in the back room writing when he was interrupted.

  “A crate just arrived from Amsterdam,” the girl said.

  The old man set aside his work and rushed to inspect the delivery. Using a crowbar, with his granddaughter’s help, he pried the crate open, revealing a batch of books. Sammy picked one up and read the title on the spine: The Legend of the Uncharted Isnd.

  “You bought a batch of books?” Sammy asked.

  Balin peered into the crate and found a letter bearing the publisher’s seal. He took it, broke the wax seal, and began reading. Sammy curiously gnced at the stack of books before turning to her grandfather, whose expression darkened with each line he read. When he finished, he sighed and folded the letter.

  “What’s wrong, Grandpa?” Sammy asked, puzzled.

  Balin looked at his granddaughter.

  “The publisher is informing me that, despite a few sales, the book has been beled a literary failure. They’re returning the st print run and wishing me luck on future projects.”

  “Why are they notifying you?” Sammy asked.

  Balin tore up the letter and walked back toward the storeroom, his granddaughter following him.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  The writer colpsed into a worn-out armchair in the corner of the small office, removed his gsses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  "Sammy... I wrote that novel under a pseudonym," he said.

  The girl stared at him in surprise, her brow furrowing.

  "Why did you do that?"

  "I wanted to take a chance. If I published the novel under a different name, maybe my luck would change."

  Sammy knelt before her grandfather and took his hand.

  “Grandpa, your novel was thrilling—I loved it. And knowing it was you makes it even better! Imagine if it had been a hit—you would’ve been competing against yourself!”

  The old man forced a somewhat bitter smile.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. No doubt you love your grandfather. I invested so much time into writing it—more than ten years! All my hopes were pinned on that manuscript, but from what I see, I’m a relic of the past. It’s simply… over. I once knew glory as a writer, and now I’ve fallen, fading into oblivion.”

  Sammy leaned back and fixed her grandfather with a determined look.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “We’ll sell these books, and that manuscript you’re writing will be a huge success. Just wait—when we publish in New York or Boston, things will go better.”

  Balin put his gsses back on, stroked her cheek with his palm, and smiled.

  “Maybe it’s best if I retire… The era of pirate tales is out of fashion. People are more interested in romance and courtly stories like those of Eliza Haywood,” Balin said, gncing at the store’s shelves, which included a small section of books. He sighed.

  “Go home, Grandpa,” Sammy said. “I’ll take care of the shop.”

  “There’s no need, dear; we’re closing early.”

  “Grandpa, it’s not even five in the afternoon.”

  “I don’t think any more customers will come. Make sure to lock up and go help Sally,” he instructed.

  Then, he stood up, took his coat and tricorn hat from the pegs on the wall, and went out for a walk to clear his mind. His granddaughter accompanied him to the door and stood in the threshold, watching him walk away with his hands in his pockets, his head bowed.

  Balin strolled toward the harbor, passing townspeople going about their business. He walked past buildings that blended Georgian and Caribbean styles, some incorporating salvaged ship wood into their structures. Finally, he reached the port and inhaled the salty sea air, tinged with the scent of shellfish. The ships, their sails furled, rocked gently in the harbor, while in the distance, Queen Anne’s Fort loomed atop a cliff, guarding the harbor entrance. Beyond its defensive role, it served as the governor’s residence. Its cannons pointed toward the horizon, ready to defend the encve, and at the top of the fortress, the Union Fg fluttered in the wind, marking its presence as the guardian of the bay.

  Balin searched for a pce to sit and gaze at the horizon, where the sun was beginning to set. Memories of the past flooded his mind—like that night when he and his wife decided to flee London to escape debtors’ prison. They had left with only the essentials and their two-year-old daughter, seeking refuge on Is Negra. With the little money old Van Buuren had managed to bring from the continent, he had opened a small goods shop, which had allowed them to survive.

  “Well, Balin, you had your moments of glory… What else could go wrong today?” he murmured after sighing.