The Amber Echo of an Unspoken Vow

The tide doesn't just pull at the sand; it pulls at the things we leave behind. I stand where the water meets the land, my skin drinking in the last bruised gold of a dying day. In the city, life is a series of sharp corners and neon blinks—an endless rush to be somewhere else. But here, the silence has weight. It tastes like salt and old letters tucked into bedside tables.
I remember how his hands felt against my cheek when we sat in that cramped apartment above the bakery on 4th Street. He spoke in low tones about 'finding our rhythm,' as if love were a song we hadn't yet learned to play. Now, standing here alone, I realize that warmth isn't something you find; it’s something you carry like a hidden ember under your ribs, kept safe from the damp chill of reality.
The waves whisper my name, or perhaps they just mimic the way he used to say it—a soft exhaled secret before sleep. I close my eyes and feel the sun sinking into my pores, healing the jagged edges of a month spent in grey shadows and crowded trains. If I stay here long enough, maybe the sea will wash away the noise of the station platforms and the heavy hum of traffic. For now, I am just a ghost in white silk, waiting for the moon to rise and tell me that it’s okay to let go of what was never meant to be held.

Editor: Lane Whisperer