Countdown: 00:00:39.
Rita's mind flashed back to the words she had read in those old notes.
—"Eleven thousand three hundred and sixty-seven sunsets. Eleven thousand three hundred and sixty-seven times I saw the Blue-striped Bluru. It never once touched the bait. So why does it come here every day? Why does it always leave at sunset? Will I die never seeing anyone reel one in?"
She turned her head. Ignoring the thousands of students staring at Blue-striped Bluru, waiting for the game to end, she looked at the Fishing Master standing at the edge of the pier. He had already lifted his rod, ready to go home.
This was the eleven thousand three hundred and sixty-eighth sunset.
Why did the fish come every day?
Why did it always wait until sunset to leave?
—"The joy of fishing lies in patience and adventure."
—"If we can never catch a fish, then in the eyes of the fish, are we not the rarest anglers of all?"
