Salt on the Skin
There is a specific grit that settles into the creases of your palms after a day spent near the tide. It is the taste of salt, sharp and metallic, lingering on the back of your throat long after the sun has dipped below the horizon. I remember…
The Ghost of the Ride
Walls are meant to hold things back. They define the edge of a room, the boundary of a garden, the limit of a life. But sometimes, a wall forgets its purpose. It begins to invite the outside in. A painted shadow, a rusted frame, the suggestion…
The Weight of a Hand
The smell of damp earth after a sudden monsoon rain always brings me back to the feeling of a small, sticky palm pressed against my own. It is a specific kind of heat—the kind that radiates from a child who has been running until their lungs…