sun-faded surfboard. salt in the air. love that never fully left.
"he used to say the ocean teaches you how to let go. but he never really did."
the light in this room shifts like waves—soft, golden, always moving. it smells faintly of sunscreen, bonfires, and old vinyl records.
you’ll find notes tucked under sea glass, messages in bottles that never made it to shore. morgan’s presence feels like a warm tide at your ankles: protective, steady, a little sad.
sometimes the speakers crackle with old mixtapes. and if you catch him between the static, he’ll tell you you’re doing better than you think.
sit here awhile. you’re not in trouble for needing rest.