Whispers in the Salted Air

The salt air tastes of old letters and unkept promises, settling on my skin like a fine layer of dust from an attic shelf. I stand upon this ancient stone, feeling the weight of every soul that ever looked out at this same blue horizon. My dress is the color of a dying sun—a desperate, beautiful amber that refuses to let the day slip into shadow.
I raise my hand not as a greeting, but as an anchor against the tide of time. In this city of terracotta and sea-foam, I am searching for your ghost between the rows of houses. Did we ever really exist in these streets, or were we just echoes trapped in the curve of a doorway?
There is a warmth here that hurts—a lingering heat from a summer long since ossified into memory. It is the healing kind of ache, the sort that teaches you how to live with absence. I want to reach out and touch the water, but I fear my hand would simply dissolve into salt and mist. For now, I remain: a living relic in an urban tapestry, waving at a future that feels like a dream I’ve already woken from.

Editor: Antique Box