The morning the sea turned to glass, Edda woke to total silence. No waves, no birds. From her window the whole harbor looked frozen smooth and shining. She sat at her desk and, almost without thinking, dipped her pen and inked a brand-new coastline onto a blank chart: cliffs, a bay, a row of sharp rocks. None of it was real. By the time the ink dried, a fisherman was pounding on her door, shouting that ships were sailing toward land that had never been there before.

Edda grabbed the chart and ran to the docks. Sure enough, three trading ships were turning toward the new bay she had drawn — straight at the rocks she'd inked. She had to warn them. She lit a lantern, swung it over her head, and shouted for the captains to turn back.

The lead ship's captain saw her lantern and spun the wheel hard. The ship groaned, tilted, and just scraped past the rocks into safe water. But the two ships behind didn't see her in time. Edda's heart sank as they kept coming.

Edda couldn't reach the ships in time. The two of them hit the rocks with a terrible crunch. But the sailors were strong swimmers, and townsfolk rowed out fast to pull them from the cold water. Every single person was saved, though the ships were lost. Edda swore she would never draw a careless coastline again.