A sweet, salty breeze floats in, stinging my eyes, rustling the dune grass, singing in the trees at the edge of the forest. The grey sky beckons my spirit to walk on, it carries me down the narrow path towards glowing lights tucked beneath the haze.
The house stands where the tree line kisses the sand, two worlds colliding in one space. I have seen it before, and in my spirit I know I will see it again.
The walls are worn with time, weathered by many seasons in the salt stung air. Heavy wooden planks fit the frame, now soft and grey; thin ripples of white run in the cracks like gold trapped in stone, telling a story of slowly decaying beauty.
A fire sparks under the cold stony mantle, heavy rocks stacked one on top of the other, rudimentary yet refined. The scent of cedar and pine filling the house, mingling with the heavenly temptation of sweet, succulent pies baking in the oven.
I wonder at the mix of old fashioned and modern, hard and soft. A sleek Eames lounge chair set on a thick fur rug next to a lacquered table, contrast the raw white washed brick, wood, and stone construction of the home.
My senses tingle and the mist begins to fade; the smell of pine slipping away with the tide. I feel the weight of blankets pressing on my chest, my eyes unwilling to open, grasping for the depths of the fog.
And so I stay, buried beneath the covers, clinging to the hope that the house (my house), the forest (my forest), and the sea (my big beautiful sea) will remain, tucked in my dreams, until I walk the narrow path and find them once more.