Each morning begins with steam swirling above the misfit kettle. There's a rhythm to it—water heats, bubbles form, then silence, and finally, the hissing whistle.
It mirrors the gasoline smell of the boat pier, a place forgotten by time. Here, the sails flutter like anxious spirits, waiting for wind's embrace. My father taught me this dance with a wink and a nod, voice low, as if wary of the echoes swirling beneath the waves.
Rituals, they say, keep us grounded. I found mine among the boats and seashells, each step a fragment of conversation with the tide, only audible when still.
"Listen closely," he would say, "there's a story in every crest—each whisper a testament to endurance."
The island is small, its heart caught between the tides. Discover more in Seashell Murmurs or escape the echoes Silence.