Nanortalik, our final stop in Greenland is a smalll town with the soul of a village. Life here felt active and grounded—people busy with their routines, children heading to school, and curious youngsters trying out English with passing tourists. The older residents smiled as we walked by, many of them tending small stalls filled with beautifully carved handmade goods. The kind that make you want to buy one of everything, just to carry a piece of this place home—but we resisted, if only barely.

The fog that had lingered all morning began to lift as we explored the town, revealing steep mountains and colorful homes—some painted in two tones, as if the residents couldn’t quite settle on a single shade. It added a quirky charm to the streets, a kind of cheerful indecision that made the town feel even more personal.

We saw several dogs lounging or trotting along the paths, clearly at ease in their domain. And finally—a cat. It was perched near a doorway, tail flicking with impatience, eager to get inside. When someone opened the door, it leapt gracefully onto the banister, immediately claiming its scratching post with triumphant satisfaction. It was a small, joyful moment—the kind that makes a place feel lived-in and loved.

Looking back from shore, the ship remained engulfed in fog, a ghostly silhouette against the clearing sky. It was almost an art piece—sea, mist, and memory suspended in time.