The Map of Invisible Worlds

The elder whispered in his ear: “Your secret name is Calibán…”

The map ended at the river. The boy knew this because the line simply stopped, as if the person who drew it had decided there was nothing worth knowing on the other side.

But the herons crossed it every morning. The fishermen followed currents that were nowhere on the paper. At night, the stars seemed to draw roads of their own.

The boy placed the map on the ground. “It's wrong.”

The elder crouched beside him. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it only shows what its maker knew how to see.”