The wind was steady that morning, and the sky held the kind of gray that made the ocean look darker, deeper. He walked the beach with his hood up, not in a rush, just letting the sound of the waves set the pace. A piece of driftwood caught his eye. Then a tangle of rope. Then a candy wrapper half-buried in the sand. Not unusual. Not surprising. But still, it stuck with him. At the end of the beach, there was a flat rock he always stopped at — a kind of quiet checkpoint. He sat down, looked out, and just watched. There was no one else around. Just sea and sky and the steady pull of the tide. He wasn’t thinking of changing the world. He wasn’t thinking of big ideas. Just a question: How do you hold on to something you care about? The answer, he figured, might be this: You notice it. You show up for it. You carry it with you — even in small ways. Later, at home, he picked up a black sweatshirt he’d tossed on a chair the night before. Simple. Worn-in. The words across the chest read: For The Ocean We Love. He hadn’t thought much of them at first. But now, they meant something. Not because they were loud, but because they were true. He slipped it on. Stepped outside. And walked back toward the sea... 

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