Islands in the Mist

In the quiet intervals of the morning, when the sun breathes life into the horizon, the islands emerge. Islands soft like whispers, veiled in a tender mist that blurs their edges and conceals their heart.

Life here flows in currents unseen, a tapestry woven from silence. The fishermen glide past on edges of dreams, their nets cast into waters that ripple into twilight. They speak in the soft tongue of the sea, a language as ancient as the islands themselves.

We walk along paths worn smooth by countless footsteps, the earth cool beneath our bare soles. The trees arch above us, guardians of secrets only they understand. Birds perch silently, their eyes mirrors of the unspoken sky.

And in those moments, on the edge of the mist, we find pieces of ourselves we never knew were missing. Fragments of time floating like petals upon the water, waiting for someone to gather them into a bouquet of memories.

Beyond the fog, a lighthouse stands—its lonely glow, a beacon for wanderers.

Or perhaps, it's the stories of the old tall ships that have sailed these waters, their sails billowing in the misty air.