In unbroken snow, a set of footprints stops. Not at a wall, not at a road, but at nothing. Before dawn on a slate gray morning, a fisherman’s light trembles across damp wool. A nameless man, facedown by the tide line, his collar stiff with salt. In his pocket, a scrap of paper, its edges swollen by the sea, holds a phrase no one can place. We trace his last known steps and find only silence. Th...
