When the sun begins to retreat,
it doesn’t say goodbye—
it converts.
Skin becomes outline.
Voices dissolve into shoreline.
People stop being names
and start becoming shadows that remember warmth.
You see them out there—
not as bodies,
but as echoes in motion.
Some hold hands.
Some chase water.
Some just stand,
waiting to be translated
into something less visible but more true.
This is the hour when the ocean doesn’t reflect light—
but memory.
Everyone becomes part myth,
part shape,
part unfinished sentence
written in salt.
The beach doesn’t empty.
It archives.
And when the sun finally sinks—
you realize:
you weren’t watching people at all.
You were watching goodbyes wearing silhouettes.
