The sound of waves tapping on the hull, like forgotten whispers of sailors lost in time, echoes in the back alley of electricity and motorized steel. Outside, the synthesis of schedules hum in their relentless unlocking of hours, yet here stands a half-dozen wooden masts, tired of their dreams of sailing.
She walked along the dock, where pilings embraced concrete with a hint of mold, like old friends reminiscing. The pier always smelled like adventure mingled with rot, a sensory echo singing halcyon times when wind called sailors more fervently than texts and tweets do now.
"Old dreams are hard to quit," she thought as the breeze teased loose end stories of anchors buried beneath asphalt. Somewhere under that easy rocking lie maps to lands untouched by accrued pixels.