The café by the market put its tables back inside without ceremony, the way towns do when summer ends on a weekday. I ordered the coffee I always order and watched a man explain the sea to a dog, patiently, twice.
The wind had turned from the east, carrying salt and the distinct scent of drying seaweed from the lower spit. Winter here does not arrive on a date; it settles like damp wool in the corners of every room.
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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 →