The Ghost of the Saltings

The fog is a thick, white tongue lapping at the edges of the pier, smoothing the rough edges of the world until the saltings are a single, silent plane.

The lighthouse is a cyclops' eye blinking through the milk and the brine, a slow, red pulse in the heart of the mist that guides the gulls to their hidden roosts.

The town is a ghost of its former self, its houses dissolving like sugar in tea, and the only sound is the rhythmic lap of the tide against the ancient stone.

The world is a blank page now, waiting for the sun to write its story, but for now, the silence is enough, a cool, white blanket over the sea.