The path to the village is barely a path at all, just a muddy trail winding through saltmarsh grasses that hiss in the wind. I slipped twice, boots caked, but when the bay opened up, it was worth it. The houses are old, built from rough-cut stone, their roofs long gone or caving in. Some are knee-deep in water, others still cling to dry ground, but the sea’s patient—it’ll take them all eventually. I waded out to one, the water cold through my boots, and found an old anchor leaning against a wall, rusted and heavy, like it was holding the house upright out of sheer stubbornness.

Nobody lives here now, but you can feel the people who did. A broken chair in one house, a cracked mug half-buried in silt. The locals in the nearest town don’t talk much about it—just shrug and say the village was “too close to the sea.” One old woman, selling fish from a cart, told me it was cursed after a storm took half the fleet. Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s just a story to keep kids away. But standing there, with the tide tugging at my ankles and the wind carrying salt and whispers, I believed it. The air feels thick, like it’s holding onto every shout, every laugh, every prayer that ever echoed here.

I sat on a low wall, watching the water swirl around the houses. The bay’s calm, almost too calm, like it’s trying to lull you into staying. At low tide, they say you can see more—old foundations, a sunken pier, even a bell from a church that’s long gone. I didn’t stay long enough to see it; the tide was turning, and I didn’t trust my luck. But I could imagine it, the village laid bare, its bones exposed to the sky. It’s not a sad place, not exactly—just heavy, like it’s carrying too many stories to tell in one go.