He stands where the land ends.
The wind off the Channel cuts clean,
salty,
unapologetic.
Below him:
white stone, sheer and ancient,
carved by centuries of leaving.
Behind him:
everything we did not bury.
Caelwyn does not look toward England.
He looks back —
toward the mountains,
the caves,
the places that learned our names.
“Today,” he says quietly,
“we cross.”
Not as conquerors.
Not as pilgrims.
As witnesses.
❓ If the ground beneath your feet ended here —
would you step forward,
or turn to see what still follows?
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