The Salt-Stained Silence of Us

I have always felt like an artifact misplaced in a glass city—polished, transparent, yet profoundly cold. My life was measured by the hum of server rooms and the sterile glow of blue light until I found you waiting at the edge of this coast.
The white fabric clings to my skin like a second memory, thin enough to let me feel every breath of the salt-laden wind against my bare back. I stand here, not as an employee or a daughter or a citizen, but as something raw and uncatalogued. The sunset is bleeding into the sea, painting us in hues of bruised lavender and dying gold—the kind of light that only exists when time decides to pause.
You are behind me; I can hear your heartbeat through the silence, steady and sure like an old clock mechanism. When you finally touch my waist, it isn't just a gesture—it is a restoration process. Your warmth seeps into my marrow, thawing layers of urban ice that had settled deep within me over years of solitude.
I turn slightly, letting my gaze linger on the horizon where heaven meets water, knowing that in this moment, we are both relics being rediscovered by love. The world beyond these rocks is loud and demanding, but here, under a fading sun, your palm against my skin tells me everything I have forgotten about being alive.

Editor: Antique Box