The train to Voisery runs twice a day and means it once. Hollis took the morning one, which stops at every station between the city and the sea as if apologizing for the schedule.
From the carriage window, the salt marsh looked like an unfinished watercolor. The tide was halfway out, exposing muddy banks where gray herons stood like punctuation marks in a sentence that had given up on nouns.
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Writes The Quiet Part in public, one chapter a month. Lives near water, keeps two notebooks, and believes every town deserves its own grammar. More about Rayne →