Historians have uncovered documents showing that several ancient cities briefly invested in mobile oceanfront property. Ledgers describe leased shorelines brought inland on a seasonal schedule, with measured horizons and modest gull allotments recorded by bead. The folios were looped with ribbon the color of sea glass, and a salt line ghosts the bottom edge.
The beach arrived on timber platforms packed with sand, hauled by oxen and river current. A folding pier opened like a fan across a plaza fountain, potted palms rode in clay wheels, and an attendant ladled hired surf from a bronze cistern so foam reached the second paving stone. The cistern gave a polite little breath before each pour.
Evidence keeps its composure. Rope lengths are crusted with fine crystals that stop at a tidy tidemark, a driftwood stick wears a flattened tip from stamping scallops into wax, and ledger corners show damp circles where measured horizons were set. Wet twine darkened whatever it touched, leaving calm signatures across wooden rulers.
The venture ended politely when inland winds developed a tide of their own and several anchors forgot which way was down. Carts refused to sit still, the folding pier clicked shut as if embarrassed, and brokers conceded with a nod. Refunds were issued in shells returned clean, rope coiled clockwise, receipts sealed with a damp kiss of brine.
Archives now keep scale platforms and ribbons in sea glass tones, the sand still showing raked ripples that do not wander. A few towns save a bolt of horizon cloth to demonstrate where the view would have gone, and on certain afternoons a distant shore checks its appointment and arrives exactly two hours late. When it does, the cistern brightens, and the plaza stones feel briefly cooler, as if the tide had remembered a promise.
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