beneath the weight of tides I

the sand was damp from the morning tide, and the air hung heavy with the scent of salt and seaweed. he leaned forward, bracing himself against the world, his eyes locked on the horizon, as if searching for something just out of reach. the sunday quiet of santa ponça was broken only by the occasional cry of a gull. the beach, normally alive with sun and laughter, was still and waiting. behind him, the sea whispered its endless stories. the kind of stories he carried on his shoulders, each ripple a reminder of something lost, something found.