The Old Beach The old beach smells of salt and memories. The waves no longer rush; they are calm and tired, like someone who has come a long way and is no longer in a hurry. The sand is a silver-gray color, full of broken shells and frosted glass polished by the sea over the years. There are no fresh footprints; only parallel lines drawn by wind and water, like a page that no one has written on for a long time. In the distance, a few rotten wooden beams protrude from a pier that no longer exists. Sometimes you can hear the sound of a board swaying with the waves, like the slow breathing of something forgotten but not quite dead yet. Time passes more slowly here. The old beach allows you, without explanation, without apology, to just sit and look at what is no longer there. And just looking is a kind of being.
