I loop the mooring line around a weathered iron ring. Then, nothing happens. The island carries on without needing us. The heather holds the wind for a little while. The rocks remember more winters than anyone could ever count. Silence does not come from outside. It rises from the dark scent of seaweed, from the sea’s slow breathing against the shore. A solitary gull opens the sky with a cry, and it closes again. Far away, a ship passes. It moves across the horizon like a thought one chooses not to follow. Out here, time loses its habit of dividing itself. Morning and evening simply exchange places with the light. I pause and stand for a while in the stillness. Am I the one listening to it, or is it listening to me?
