Dawn came in from the
sea, a slow tide of
pale blue. She wrapped
her cardigan tighter and
watched the fishing boats
bob beyond the
breakwater.
The air tasted of salt
and rust. A gull cried
once, then settled on a
lamppost. Far off, a
ferry horn sounded —
low, patient.
She hadn't slept much.
The house behind her was
still and dark. But out
here, the world was just
waking, and it didn't
ask her to explain.
She set her empty cup on
the rail, listened to
the water's soft repeat
against the rocks below.
Maybe that's enough —
to be here while it
happens.
The wind kept its own rhythm, and she let it.