Tidewritten

There was a house once - gray-shingled, salt-bitten - leaning just enough to creak when the wind shifted. No one lived there, not lately. But sometimes, after rain, you could still smell pipe smoke and wet rope.

A ledger sat open on the table, names half-faded by mildew. E.D. Mallory. L.T. Cobb. Initials, dates, nothing more. The last entry: "Gone in the storm. Nets still out."

Out back, a half-buried anchor. She said it wasn't for a boat, but to hold the island still. A joke, maybe. Or not.

Children claimed they'd seen a lantern swinging low in the marsh. Adults didn't argue. Some things you don't unteach.

At low tide, bones of a wreck showed just offshore - not enough to name the ship, just enough to wonder if someone was still waiting for it.

Wind scraped across the dunes like someone whispering names. Not loudly. Just enough to remind you.

No one built there anymore. The sea was patient.

And the stories?

They never ended.

Just faded.

Tidewritten.