I stayed there for one night, the winter I couldn't sleep anywhere.
You reach it by a path cut into the rock, and for the last stretch you walk directly beneath it: a block of concrete the size of a ship, pushed out over the sea with nothing under it but fog. A thin line of pink light runs along its underside. From the ledge it looks like it's floating.
The room at the front is glass on three sides. A bed, a lamp, nothing else. No curtains, because there is nothing out there but the fog, violet at that hour, resting against the windows.
What I remember is the sound. The waves break at the foot of the cliff and the whole house carries it up to you. Not loud. More like lying inside a very slow breath: in, and the floor hums; out, and the glass goes still. Wind moving along the face of the rock. Every so often one wave larger than the rest, and the lamp trembles.
I was sure I'd lie awake all night listening. I counted maybe forty waves.
— a guest, December 2087