Before the sun. Before the crowds. Before the day remembers what it's supposed to be.
Winter dawn at Pemaquid. Snow on the rocks. The light still turning in the tower, doing what it has done for over a century.
There's a quiet that belongs to this hour. The kind you have to earn by waking up in the dark and driving roads you know by heart. Most people see this lighthouse in summer, in sunshine, surrounded by voices. But this is how it looks when no one else is watching.
The sky hasn't decided yet. Neither have you. And that's the whole point.
For walls that remember what stillness feels like.
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Before the sun. Before the crowds. Before the day remembers what it's supposed to be.
Winter dawn at Pemaquid. Snow on the rocks. The light still turning in the tower, doing what it has done for over a century.
There's a quiet that belongs to this hour. The kind you have to earn by waking up in the dark and driving roads you know by heart. Most people see this lighthouse in summer, in sunshine, surrounded by voices. But this is how it looks when no one else is watching.
The sky hasn't decided yet. Neither have you. And that's the whole point.
For walls that remember what stillness feels like.
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