In Kropa, a master guided me to strike where the iron showed a faint orange, not white. My rushed swing bent the work; his steady tap corrected it. We finished a tiny nail, slightly crooked, unmistakably ours, and I finally understood rhythm beats strength, every single time.
In Idrija, pins mapped a snowflake I could not yet see. A neighbor whispered jokes in gentle English, adjusting my thread when it tangled. Hours later, a delicate corner emerged. Packed between socks, it survived the bus ride and now frames a postcard that still smells faintly of starch.
At Sečovlje, the rake felt surprisingly light until the wind blew up from the bay. A patient worker showed me how to skim rather than dig. Crystals glittered on my hands, and the taste—clean, bright, unadorned—rearranged my idea of ordinary kitchen salt forever.
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