Fog's Erasure

The salt-heavy breath of the Pacific drifts through the cypress, muting the sharp edges of the cliff until the world is a smudge of charcoal and milk.

We walk where the tide used to be, listening for the rhythmic pulse of unseen water. The lighthouse beam is a ghost's finger tracing a path that vanishes before it begins.

Memory works like this— not a sudden dark, but a slow softening, where the names of things dissolve into the white static of the air.