There is a place where the moon forgot how to leave. It hangs low and full over water that has not moved in longer than anyone can remember, sometimes doubled — a second, smaller orb tucked just above the horizon line, as if the sky couldn't decide how much light it needed to give. The sea below holds no memory of tides. It doesn't rise or fall, doesn't churn or still — it simply is, the same silver-grey expanse today as it was however many yesterdays ago the last person stood here and tried to name the hour.

Because there is no hour to name. The light sits in that narrow band between rose and ash, the color of a held breath — not quite dawn, not quite dusk, not quite anything with a word for it. You learn, after a while, to stop asking whether the sun is coming or going. It doesn't matter here. The ground remembers footsteps the way the sea remembers weather: barely, and without urgency. Time didn't stop in this place. It simply lost interest in moving forward.