'I told you we should have brought sunscreen,' said the mangrove to the cliff.

The cliffs looked like they had been carved by time itself, their red hues deepened by the afternoon sun. Below them stretched a tidal flat dotted with mangrove trees, their green resilience a quiet defiance against the salt and dryness of this land. I could almost hear the whisper of roots beneath the surface, competing for every drop of moisture hidden in the soil. The bridge in the distance seemed like a fragile connection between two worlds—one shaped by water’s absence and the other by its fleeting presence. Walking along this edge felt like stepping into a dialogue between survival and surrender.