On crisp autumn mornings, the shore breathes life into forgotten treasures, pieces of past relations rise and fall with the tide. Sitting on that intimate line where land meets sea, I collect stories intangibly etched onto worn surfaces of driftwood. Each piece carries a shadowed echo of voices long buried, weaving a narrative of solitude and warmth only the ocean could know.
One particular strand of memory twines around a weather-beaten log—its fibers whisper a glimpse into the life once lived atop its bark, a child's laughter mingling amidst rustling waves. Those carefree days, sheltered by the drift’s memory, form an indelible imprint on the soul, tethered to the constant ebb of time and tide.