Fictional dispatch: the northern coast

The road ended earlier than the map suggested. From there it was gravel, then grass, then the low murmur of a coastline the wind had not yet decided how to shape.

We stayed three days. The light behaved as though it were on loan. Wool held the cold politely; linen refused it. The sea was the colour of a stone I once found and forgot to keep.

None of this happened. All of it is true, in the way an editorial is true.