The sky shifts, deep indigo dissolving into gold. The morning belongs to the quiet - the hush of retreating waves, the slow creak of a wooden jetty warming in the sun. Sand, cool beneath bare feet, the last traces of the night still lingering in the air.
The Shanklin moves as easily as the tide - organic cotton, weightless, unhurried. Draping loose and soft, the hood catching the breeze, sleeves pushed up in lazy defiance of the chill. No rush, no need to decide what comes next. Some days begin with motion. Others begin like this.
