They are about men and women who have lost something a war, a love, a piece of themselves and keep moving anyway.
There are no heroes here. Only people who did what they could with what they had.
The road is long, the bottle half-empty, and the sea, always, just beyond sight.
These are stories of small courage and quiet defeat.
They were written to be read slowly one at a time, perhaps at dusk, when the day is mostly gone and the world is still.
Each story stands alone, but together they tell of the same journey the road north.
It's the direction we take when we've lost the trail south, when the dust settles and we must choose what's left to carry.
There are fields, bars, rivers, and borders.
There is the old mule, the empty table, the hill where nothing grew.
And in every silence, there's a truth that cannot be spoken aloud.
Read them as you would watch the sea: not for what happens, but for what stirs beneath.
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