On the edge of memory

The sky was a pale shade of lavender, the sun hanging low on the horizon as the waves gently lapped against the rocky coast. A salty breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the quiet hum of the sea. Along the shore, a lone photographer stood still, camera in hand, eyes fixed on the distant line where the ocean met the sky.

Out of the mist, a tall ship appeared, its sails billowing softly in the wind, like a ghost from another time. The ship moved with a grace that seemed impossible in the modern world, its wooden hull slicing through the water without a sound. No engines, no noise—just the rhythmic pulse of nature.

The photographer, entranced by the sight, raised the camera slowly. With a quiet click, the lens captured the fleeting image, a memory pressed into film. But even as the shutter closed, the ship was already fading, swallowed by the mist as if it had never been there at all.

For a few more moments, the photographer stood, lost in the serenity of the scene. The only sound was the wind and the waves, and time seemed to stretch in those quiet breaths. It was a moment of zen, untouched by the chaos of the world, suspended between reality and dream.

Then, as the last glimmer of the ship vanished over the horizon, the spell was broken. The photographer lowered the camera, blinking as if awakening from a trance. The world resumed its rhythm, and the moment passed like a whisper, leaving only the faint scent of salt in the air.

It was as though the ship had never been there—just a fleeting specter on the edge of memory, forever lost in the endless sweep of the sea.