Before the sun fully rises, the earth still lingers in a dream.

The air is crisp, fresh like the first sip of spring water, and gently tingles against your skin. Salt from the sea leaves quiet stories of the wind tangled in your hair. A silk-thin mist settles over a silent bay, its surface tinted in a hushed, dusky hue, as if the sky’s reflection hasn’t quite remembered to wake. The horizon shimmers like darkened gemstones, quietly shifting. The sea murmurs slowly, each wave a softened heartbeat, fading into the calls of early birds. Twilight clouds drift in a tender dance - barely there at first, then suddenly vivid, like lilac blossoms just opening to the dawn, still wet with dew. Their scent hangs in the air, sweet and cool; so real you can almost taste it.

And within it all, peace.
The kind you can hear.
The kind that smells like the early morning, sounds like waves and birdsong, tastes like salt and flowerdust.