A-Coast-That-Isnt-There
They sent for a memory cartographer the way other towns sent for a priest, and Salla had learned not to ask why until she arrived.
The town was called Vetka, or had been, before the maps stopped agreeing with the water. Now half its streets ran out into the bay like sentences a tide had interrupted. Salla stood on what the old survey insisted was Harbour Road and looked at forty metres of grey, indifferent sea. Somewhere under it, the survey promised, were a fish market, a chapel, and the house where a man named Ottar had been born.
It was Ottar who had hired her. He met her at the new shoreline — the ugly word, *new*, that everyone here said with their teeth set — a man so old he seemed to have been folded rather than aged. He did not want a chart of where the coast was. Charts of where things were could be bought from the state for a coin. He wanted a chart of where the coast *had been*, before the warm decades pulled the ice down off the mountains and let the ocean walk inland a metre every few years.
"Accurate to the old line," he said. "Every lane. Every door."
Salla unrolled her instruments on a table that smelled of salt and woodsmoke. "I can interpolate from the imperial survey and the satellite record. It won't be perfect. The bottom shifts."
"It doesn't have to be perfect." Ottar set a weathered photograph beside her compass: a girl on a step, a painted door