What Stays

The fishing shack at the end of the pier has been painted so many times that its walls feel soft. Storms take the railings and the town builds them back. Still, the same old man sits on the same overturned bucket every dawn, waving at boats he knows by their engines alone. I used to think permanence meant stone. Now I suspect it means habit: the kettle on, the door unlocked, a neighbour’s wave. Cliffs wear down. Tides rearrange the beach nightly. What stays is the stubborn kindness of people who keep showing up, for the place and each other.