The Edge of the Tide
We arrive at the water’s edge carrying the weight of the day. It is a habit, this seeking of horizons, as if the line where the sky meets the sea could offer an answer to the things we cannot name. The light fades, turning the world into…
The Weight of Winter
I keep a small, silver thimble in my desk drawer, worn smooth by my grandmother’s thumb over decades of mending. It is a hollow, heavy thing, yet it holds the ghost of every garment she ever saved from the fray. There is a quiet, stubborn…
The Salt on the Skin
The air here tastes of wet iron and ancient, crushed shells. It is a sharp, metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat, the kind of cold that doesn't just touch the skin but settles deep into the marrow of your bones. I remember walking…