The sea has forgotten to move, glazing itself into a calm the wind can’t argue with. Far out, the island waits like a kept promise, a single syllable on an otherwise silent page. He stands until his pulse slows to match the flat water, then chooses the line between sheen and frost and starts down. Each step writes a thin sentence on glass. If the ice sings, he will stop. If it stays quiet, he will arrive with nothing claimed and everything confirmed: the world is large and he belongs inside it.
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