That motorboat is clearly late for its own party.

The shoreline seemed to lean into the harbor as if eager to meet the water. The motorboat sped through the waves with a sense of urgency that felt out of place against the languid rhythm of the scene. Its wake unraveled behind it, a fleeting memory etched into the surface. The buildings along the coast stood in quiet contrast—stoic yet inviting, their balconies like open arms reaching for the horizon. I noticed how the sun caught on the windows of these homes, scattering golden flecks across the water. It was as if the city itself was trying to join in the playfulness of the waves. A few seagulls circled above, their cries sharp but distant, like echoes from some other world.