But Carmita wasn't surprised that much that evening.

They come when the sun goes down, the air chills, and you can feel the salty wind in your hair. She stood at the foot of the Puerto de Altura, a pier stretching eight kilometers into the darkness of the Gulf like a concrete finger. It was as if it were pointing at something that should have remained hidden. When she was small, she tried to walk all the way to the end by herself, but as the sun set, the space began to warp and stretch. She barely managed to run back before the darkness could swallow her, or the sea. Maybe both.

Now she was back, salt grains on her cheeks, looking up into the empty air as if meeting someone’s gaze. The air grew still and Carmita caught that familiar scent – not fish, but something ancient, wet, and hungry. She had been expecting them, really. They always come back at this hour...

Chicxulub, 2007