The House on the Cliff

I have always known this place— the white cottage on the edge of the world, where the wind howls like a wounded thing and the rain never stops calling me home.

I have always known this place—

the white cottage on the edge of the world,

where the wind howls like a wounded thing

and the rain never stops calling me home.

Boots sinking into the mud,

a woolen skirt heavy with salt and time,

the sea below, churning, relentless,

as if it remembers something I do not.

Once, there was a man without a face,

a shadow in the doorway,

a presence I could not name—

until now.

Now it is you,

standing where he always stood,

your eyes anchoring me to a life

I am no longer dreaming.

And I wonder—

was I waiting for you all along?

Or have we been here before,

in another war, another storm,

our hands finding each other

across the wreckage of history?

The wind howls, the rain calls—

and I know this place.

I have always known this place.

And now, so do you.

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For as long as I can remember, I have had the same dream. A white cottage perched on a cliff, battered by wind and rain, standing at the edge of something vast and unknown. It feels like Scotland—cold, relentless, familiar. I see myself there, dressed in a floral skirt, a knitted jumper and boots, as if I belong to another time.

In the beginning, there was always a man beside me, but his face was a blur, an absence more than a presence. Then, one day, the dream changed. The faceless man became my husband. As if he had always been there, as if this place had been waiting for him too.

I don’t know what this means—whether it’s memory, imagination, or something else entirely. But the feeling is real. As if love, in some form, has always existed between us, finding its way through storms, through time, through dreams.