Some events need no explanation; they stand silently for themselves. And there are experiences that feel almost presumptuous to put into words. As if every attempt to describe them would take something essential away. Simply put—it wasn’t beautiful. It was adequate, nothing more. An empty shell of what could have been.

We were outside, moving through a landscape that seemed strangely lifeless, as if someone had forgotten to breathe a soul into it. Perhaps it’s because the sea was absent. A missing heartbeat. I catch myself thinking again and again: All of this must surely feel different if the water were here. If it were breathing, whispering, calling. But it isn’t here. It’s far away. So infinitely distant that although you can sense it on the horizon, its murmur remains silent, like a lost promise.

All around us, a landscape of rugged cliffs, vast sandbanks covered with algae-like underbrush that trembles in the wind like startled shadows. In some places, geometrically arranged metal constructions for oyster farming—cold grids in the sand, like forgotten art installations of a weary god. In the distance, people wandering hunched and isolated through these sandbanks, silently collecting something and filling buckets. As if they were gathering lost time.

Landéda, this place through which we walk like strangers, possesses a strangely pale charm. As if someone had washed away a painting with too much water. The dunes lie there in their matte luster, like old memories fading away. It doesn’t touch me. And perhaps this very absence of feeling is the most painful thing of all.