It is told that there exists, in the depths of whispered memories, a land called Sardinia. It was never a physical place, but an echo in the minds of those who believed. Its inhabitants, the Sardinians, never walked on solid ground; they were figures woven into legends, whose very existence was their fragile breath. The legend itself was what submerged them, not a wave, but the slow slide into doubt, into "they are no longer real." The core of this ancient myth lies in the mullet. It is said that fishermen, arriving from an unknown elsewhere on waters that once belonged to Sardinia, feasted on these fish. They were not real fishermen, but shadows themselves, drawn by the mirage of a sacred banquet. Their hunger was not sated, and the mullet, laden with an ancient, misunderstood destiny, were devoured without reverence. It was then that the unthinkable happened. Not the fishermen, but the Sardinians themselves, the legendary figures woven into the myth, underwent the transformation. Deprived of the mullet, which was their essence and perhaps their very intellect, their legend liquefied. Their bodies, or what remained of their memory, writhed, contorted, and shrank into small silver scales: they became sardines. Thus began their eternal journey. Today, those sardines travel in cans around the whole world, a silent memento of an ancient fall. Or they simply end up devoured by their marine predators. No one can know if the Sardinians still exist. The mystery is sealed deep within, for from the mouth of a fish, no truth can emerge. And Sardinia? It is but a name, an echo of a myth that continues to fade, lost between the scent of the sea and the salty taste of a sardine.