The Salt-Cured Gearbox

The tide pulls its rusted hem over the ankles of the pier, dragging back the secrets of the night— shards of green glass and smoothed bone.

In the bakery, the oven breathes, a slow, yeast-heavy sigh that fills the narrow throat of the alleyway, where a stray cat weaves between shadows.

The lighthouse blinks a final, weary eye, surrendering its yellow pulse to the grey insistence of the sun, rising like a pale coin from the throat of the Atlantic.

Everything here is held together by brine, the slow oxidation of anchor chains, the rhythmic clacking of halyards against masts, counting the seconds until the market wakes.