The prologue
The machines took everything else. They never learned to fish.
From your last day at work to your first cast.
iThe city had learned to get by without people. Cars drove themselves, robots delivered orders, and AI worked faster and cheaper. There was less and less work left for humans.
iiThen one day, it was your turn. No meeting with the boss, no goodbyes with colleagues — just a message on the screen: your job had been automated.
iiiHome felt strangely quiet. Twelve years of work fit into a single box. And for the first time in years, there was nothing planned for the evening.
ivThen you remembered what you used to love most. The old spinning rod, landing net, and tackle box — all still right where you’d left them.
vAmong the tackle were some old photographs. Early mornings, quiet banks, your first trophy fish. Funny how easy it is to forget what once made you happy.
viExactly two hundred left in the account. Your passport in the drawer. Enough for one ticket. One way.
viiThe city disappeared below, along with the job, the deadlines, and the plans. Passport in hand, rod in your luggage. From now on, the fish set your schedule.
