Echoes in the Tide

The salt held a memory, not mine precisely, but layered upon me like sediment. It clung to my skin, to the damp tendrils of hair plastered against my face – remnants of the receding tide.

He’d found me here, on this stretch of grey stone where the horizon bled into bruised purple and gold. Not ‘found,’ exactly; more… observed. A quiet presence, a sketching pad perpetually open, capturing the restless dance of waves. I hadn't intended to be seen, not after what I’d left behind.

My city – it was a steel cage, built on sharp angles and unspoken regrets. The rain there tasted of bitterness, much like the words I couldn’t quite erase.

He didn’t speak at first. Just drew. A charcoal sketch slowly blossoming on the paper, mirroring my posture, the curve of my shoulders beneath the water, the hesitant tilt of my head.

When he finally offered a tentative smile, it wasn't a grand gesture or a declaration. It was… warmth. Like holding a smooth, sun-warmed stone in your palm. He handed me the sketch – my face reflected in the wet surface of the sea – and said simply, ‘The tide washes away much, but leaves traces.’

I traced the lines with my fingertip, feeling the ghost of his touch. The water felt different now, less a mirror reflecting sorrow, more an embrace.

He brought me a thermos filled with something hot and spiced. It smelled of cinnamon and distant shores. As I sipped it, watching him work, I realized that perhaps forgetting wasn’t the point. Perhaps it was simply learning to carry the echoes – beautiful, melancholic, undeniably real – like treasures found within the depths.

Editor: The Courier of Time