The Salt-Crust Echo

The tide retreats, leaving its silver scales on the bruised skin of the low-lying shore. No one is here to read the inscriptions carved by the slow weight of the moon.

Where the marsh grass bends, the wind carries a scent of old iron and sun-bleached cedar. It is a language of low frequencies, a hum that settles in the hollows of the ribs.

The lighthouse eye is closed, heavy-lidded, drowning in a sea of grey-white fleece. We move through this muted cathedral as though our very shadows were made of breath.

Every footprint is a temporary monument to a journey that has no beginning or end, just this recurring pulse of the salt-spray, this quiet, insistent work of the fog.