The boat is winded up on land. Stubborn seagulls are crying for the catch of the morning. I turn my gaze away from the sleek fish eyes staring at me in vain from the guts. I close my eyes.
It smells harsh. It smells safe.

Rusty anchors rest outside the eel shed. Behind the tarred doors of the loft hang the nets. They are still in use, but not as before.
It's sad for the fishermen. It's sad for the fish.

I follow the tracks down towards the shoreline. With the breeze from the Baltic Sea my melancholy is replaced with hope. Stones are carried by the waves up on land; memories that are waiting.
It's the stillness.