At Merehaven beach, the tide leaves behind a new line each morning. Sea glass, a fragment of rope, a piece of blue ceramic that was once someone’s favourite plate.
I used to fill my pockets. Now I pick one thing, look at it for as long as it holds my attention, and put it back where the next tide can find it.
Not everything we find is ours to keep.
The windowsill is emptier than it was. The walks are longer.
— Osric Dunstone