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He does not hurry. The tide is low, the sand dark with retreating water. Birds wheel above him, not chaotic, but restless, as if the sky itself cannot decide where to land. Ahead, the pier glows faintly. Warm bulbs strung along wooden rails. A building at the end, windows lit like held breath. But the light is blurred. The fog softens everything into memory. He walks alone, but not abandoned. The sea does not pull him back. The lights do not call him forward. This is the space between. Where a man must decide which warmth is real.
