Letter One: The Hush Between Tides

From Iris — never sent

Dear __,

There are gulls nesting in the roof again.
I thought the sound might bother me, but it doesn’t. It’s the kind of noise that belongs—like the hush of the waves, or the way the sand shifts when no one is watching.

It’s been three weeks since I arrived.
I still haven’t unpacked the last box. It’s full of books and one sweater that smells like woodsmoke. I left it sealed, like keeping one foot in the past might keep me from slipping entirely into whatever this is.

The town is small.
People nod, but no one asks questions. There’s a post office with a crooked window, and a man who stacks seashells on the ledge outside like they’re offerings to something that listens.

I’ve been walking to the shore every evening.
The tide leaves behind bits of green glass and tangled rope. Yesterday, I found a corked bottle half-buried in the sand. Empty, of course. But I carried it home anyway. Something about it felt intentional. Like it had waited for me.

I think I came here to remember how to want things again.

I don’t know who I’m writing to—maybe no one.
Or maybe to the part of myself I lost when everything went quiet.

Either way, I’ll keep writing.
It’s the only thing that doesn’t echo in this place.

—I.