Salt & Ghosts

The sand still held the heat of yesterday’s sun. It clung to my legs, a phantom reminder of her laughter.
She wouldn't have liked this place. Too…exposed. Too bright. She preferred shadows and old books.
I came here to bury it – not her memory entirely, but the sharp edges she left behind. The guilt. The endless replaying of what *should* have been.
Each wave that crashed against these black rocks felt like a small erasure. A deliberate forgetting.
He found me walking, boots scuffed and hair damp. Just…watching the water. He didn’t say anything, just handed me a shell – smooth, grey, unremarkable.
‘It collects the echoes,’ he said, his voice low enough to be heard only by me.
And for the first time in months, I felt something other than the insistent throb of regret. A flicker. A warmth that wasn't burning but…settling.
Not healing. Not yet. Just a quiet acknowledgement that maybe, just maybe, there was space left to breathe.

Editor: Sharp Anna