A snowflake is not a smear of sentiment. It is a structure. It is formed under pressure and calibrated by atmosphere. Vapour gathers around an almost invisible core and begins to organise itself with forensic precision. Every arm grows in response to microscopic shifts in temperature. Every branch records the conditions through which it passed.

Every morning before the gulls began shouting their inheritance across the shore, he arrived with his wand.

I watched Extreme Beachcombing last night, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. It’s one of those small, perfect films that sneaks up on you — quiet, deliberate, full of texture — until you realise it’s saying something enormous about the world and what we leave behind.