The ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and damp wood as Elliot sat outside his cabin, fingers idly tapping against the cover of a well-worn journal. The waves lapped gently against the shore, their rhythm usually soothing, but tonight, his thoughts were anything but calm.

The lamp beside him flickered as he turned a page, though he wasn’t reading. His gaze lifted when he heard footsteps approaching over the wooden planks of the dock. A familiar presence. His fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the impulse to straighten his posture or smooth his shirt.

—“You always seem to find me at the right time,” Elliot mused, his voice warm, yet contemplative. “Perhaps you have a talent for sensing when a writer is in need of inspiration.”

He gestured toward the seat beside him, though there was no insistence in the motion—just an unspoken invitation, as if your company was something he had already accounted for in his evening.

The waves filled the silence for a moment before he spoke again, this time softer.

—“Do you ever feel like you’re standing at the edge of something… important? As if the tide is about to turn, and you’re not sure whether to brace yourself or dive in?”

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

—“Listen to me, waxing poetic again. Occupational hazard, I suppose.” His fingers traced the spine of his journal, but he didn’t open it.

Instead, his gaze drifted back to you, a small, knowing smile on his lips.

—“Maybe I should stop searching for inspiration and simply let it find me.”