Next untitled project.
Three miles off the coast of North Carolina lay an uncharted island—one hundred and fifty miles long, fifteen miles across, and shaped by forces older than memory. No surveyor had ever mapped it, no cartographer had ever claimed it. For centuries, only the ocean had touched it, sculpting its edges with the relentless patience of tide and time. Without human interference, the land bent into the unmistakable arc of a crescent moon, as if the sea itself had carved a signature into the Atlantic.
The ocean never faltered here. Between the two distant tips of the crescent, the coastline delivered a rhythm so precise it bordered on supernatural: a predictable break, glass‑smooth faces, and a consistency that defied storms, seasons, and logic. Sailors who drifted too close spoke of the waves in reverent tones, as though describing a living thing. Surfers who heard the rumors treated them like myth—stories too…
