The old man's footprints trail behind him in broken parallel with his dog's paw marks, twin signatures soon to be erased by the tide. His wool coat, the color of weathered driftwood, hangs heavy on stooped shoulders as he navigates the wet sand where surf meets shore. The dog, grey-muzzled like his master, keeps pace beside him, occasionally pressing a warm flank against the man's leg as if to steady him against the salt wind.

Ahead and behind them stretches only empty beach, a canvas of pewter and slate beneath a low sky. Seabirds wheel distant and silent, spectral against the clouds. The dog carries a piece of smooth driftwood, not playfully but with quiet dignity, an excuse for their shared ritual. They've walked this same stretch of shore in all seasons, through all weathers, but these winter walks hold a particular intimacy – two old friends finding comfort in familiar rhythms as the world grows colder around them.

The man's gnarled hand occasionally drops to scratch behind the dog's ears, each touch an acknowledgment of their shared solitude, their complete understanding of one another. They move unhurried, as if time has thinned and stretched like the pale winter light, leaving them alone together in this moment between tides.