Offline on the Edge of the Bay

[soemand]

At the in‑laws’ place, the outside world barely exists—one flickering bar of service, if I’m lucky. The Bay of Fundy stretches out in front of us, grey and endless, the tide doing its slow, ancient breathing.

Inside, the little one is on high alert, glued to the window, waiting for a certain jolly, oversized visitor to make his grand entrance. Every creak is a possibility. Every gust of wind is a sign.
Disconnected, quiet, and oddly perfect.