It happened swiftly. The children were gathered, not with love or care, but with haste and cold precision. They were placed on rickety boats, the kind that could never survive the storm that was brewing off the horizon. Their tiny faces pressed against the wooden sides, eyes wide with confusion and fear. And then, as the waves began to churn violently beneath them, the boats set sail—into the unknown.
The sea, once a source of life and livelihood for the villagers, had now become their executioner. The sky darkened, as if mourning for the lost souls, and the first gusts of wind seemed to carry away the last traces of innocence.
As the boats vanished into the fog, the village stood silent, the air thick with grief and despair. The children, who had once filled the streets with laughter and joy, were gone. Their names would fade into obscurity, their lives erased from history. But in the hearts of those who had loved them, their memory would never die.
And so, the sea claimed them—740 children condemned to disappear in its depths, leaving behind only questions and a gaping void in the hearts of those left to mourn.