Salt on the Skin
The air here tastes of crushed shells and cold, deep water. It is a sharp, metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat, the kind of scent that arrives just before a storm breaks. I remember the feeling of sand between my toes—not…
The Weight of Petals
There is a specific kind of silence that exists before the city wakes. It is not the silence of the forest, which is heavy and deep, but a thin, brittle silence that waits to be broken. We spend our lives moving through spaces that are already…
The Weight of Stillness
There is a specific kind of silence that exists only at high altitudes, a thinness in the air that seems to strip away the unnecessary noise of the lowlands. It is not merely the absence of sound, but a physical presence, a pressure against…