There is a piling man on the dock in Faro. He goes into the water every day, touches the wooden piles that have not rotted for four hundred years, drives down the new ones, and pulls out the old ones. There was a stone pile under the water, but he didn't tell anyone.
There is a gray streak on his right middle finger. My father said it was a birthmark and he wrapped it with a strip of cloth for many years. One day he touched the stone pile under the water. When his fingertips touched the concentric lines, the gray lines felt hot. After he came up, he sat on the iron ladder, unwrapped the cloth, and looked at it for a long time without saying anything. He only knew that the circle of things was not a birthmark, he didn't know what it was yet.
Three piles lock the sea, and Faro is the narrowest mouth of the underground river. The length of a copper pipe reaches the bottom of the ocean trough, and its inner diameter just fits into your middle finger. He tied the pipe around his waist and got into the water. The water is very cold and it is dark when you dive. He didn't know what was behind the door, but he had already reached the door and reached out to touch it.
