There is a particular kind of slowness that returns every year, carried in on salt air and longer evenings, in the feel of a screen door closing and the way a harbor looks at six in the morning before anyone else is up. You mark time differently here. Which house opens, which week the tides shift, which August sits differently in memory than the last. Summering is the word for all of it, the practice of returning to what matters and staying long enough to remember why.