A Salt-Stained Echo

The air is thick with the scent of brine and humidity, a heavy blanket that clings to my skin like a memory I cannot shake off. In the city, every second is measured in heartbeats and deadlines, but here, time stretches until it becomes as fluid as the tide. The lighthouse beam cuts through the darkness—a solitary pulse against the void, mirroring the steady rhythm of my own breathing.
My toes sink into the wet sand, yielding to the water’s slow, persistent embrace. I can still feel your ghost-touch on my shoulder from that final night in the train station; it was a spark of heat in an otherwise cold world. Now, I stand alone where the land dissolves into the deep.
The water rises around my hips, cooling my fevered heart. I came here to heal, or perhaps just to drown out the silence you left behind. Each wave is a whispered promise from a season that refused to end, washing over me like an old regret. I stand in the shadow of the moon, wearing only this silk and the weight of unsaid words, waiting for the dawn to wash me clean of you.

Editor: Summer Cicada