The Shipyard
There are places you always have a special connection with. Places that bend time in their own way, where you somehow fade into them.
I’m not sure if it’s the smell of fresh paint, or the scorched wood of the boats. Maybe it’s the grease in the crossbeams, waiting for the ships to slide into the water when the time comes.
Or maybe it’s something harder to explain — the feeling that, for a moment, you don’t belong to the present anymore.
