The Unmapped Coast

The salt-crust of the morning clings to the underside of driftwood, the gray spine of the sea bending toward the shore.

The tide is a slow-motion eraser, wiping the slate of the beach, the frantic scribbles of sandpipers replaced by a smooth, wet mirror.

Under the fog’s heavy wool, the lighthouse is a single, pale eye blinking against the weight of the mist, watching for things that never arrive.

The world here is built of echoes— the hollow boom of a distant swell, the rattle of pebbles in the undertow, the silence that follows the spray.