MargenOn every map of the region, old and new, there is a tiny village at the exact same spot: a name, four little houses drawn in, and not one road reaching it. As if it had been copied for centuries without anyone ever visiting it.
A bored cartographer decided to check. He crossed fields, climbed fences, followed the point on his compass until the ground matched the paper.
There was no village there. There was a man sitting on a stone, drawing a map. On his map the whole region was blank, except for a tiny village in the middle, with four houses and the cartographer coming towards it across the field. He looked up and said: “At last. I have been waiting centuries for one of you to step off the paper.”