In the attic breathes an invisible sea among boxes and dust. A light of salt dances on the handles, like little stars. The loft remains a still sail, ready to pierce the horizon. The suitcases train themselves to dream of the horizon, they move slowly, closed, learning to breathe water. The wood listens to their breaths broken, sail, tide. When the window leans and casts a blade of blue, the hidden sea emerges, among dust and travel fabric. The attic widens forward, beyond the horizon.