Morning drapes the beach in a veil of mist, soft and pale, blurring the edges of land and sea. The air is sharp with salt and the glow of summer, each breath sparkling. This is the space of wandering, where the dunes dissolve into the deciduous woods and footsteps are muffled by the fine, cool sand. The dunes are alive with movement—grasses bending and swaying in the breeze. Their whispers carry the rhythm of the tide. Pale rugosa roses frame the landscape, their dewy petals glinting like prisms in the pearly light, scattering rainbows onto the sand. Silvery worn driftwood stretches out like a relic of another world, half-buried near the shore. Sea spray drifts on the air, cool and invigorating, as the waves comb the shell-strewn tidal zone. Around the curve of the shoreline winding ocean pines lean toward the water as if listening for someone across the vast sea. The rustle of grasses and the steady sigh of the waves fill the air, blending with the crunch of pebbles underfoot. This place is eternally suspended between the dunes and the sea.