Salt & Ghosts

The sand still remembers his footprints. Not in a grand, dusty way, but subtly – a fainter impression where he’d brushed past, chasing the retreating tide.
It’s humid this late afternoon, clinging to everything like forgotten silk. Sweat beads on my skin, reflecting the sun’s brutal affection. A familiar discomfort.
He didn't come. Of course not. The city always wins. Too many choices, too much noise for a simple errand – a single perfect moment caught in amber light.
I trace patterns in the wet sand with my toe, a mindless task to stave off the quiet that settles like dust on everything beautiful. The waves whisper secrets of sailors lost and found, of longing that stretches back through centuries.
There’s a warmth here, though. Not the aggressive heat of the sun, but something deeper – the lingering echo of a touch, perhaps. Like a ghost made tangible by the salt in the air.
He said he liked my smile. Said it reminded him of summer rain. A small thing, easily forgotten, yet now…it’s enough to make the ache settle for just a moment. The sun bleeds into the ocean, painting the sky in bruised hues. Let him keep his city. Let him have his noise.
Here, with the sand and the salt, there's only the ghost of warmth, and that, sometimes, is enough to quiet the loneliness.

Editor: Summer Cicada