The cabin is for sale going on a second year, down from the initial 2.5 million to 2 million and some change. Whether Canadian or American, that figure is equally outrageous. Perhaps it is a bargain for Europeans and Japanese. Whatever the case, the word is that nothing much is moving and many properties have remained listed for years, despite the new development evident up and down the beach and in town.

Meanwhile, the cabin remains much the same, this year a bit more decomposed. A few small upgrades appeared last summer—new towel hooks in the bathroom, for example. This summer, after a year on the market, no new improvements and some decline. Detached gutters brimming with needles, the gate to the path leading to the beach broken off and tossed aside. A bird feeder lacking sides or bottom hangs from the remnants of its roof, and salal has partially consumed the chairs in the small seating area out front. The raincoats in the vestibule are gone—but then so is the broken lamp that sat on the dresser.

Each time I come here now I am keenly aware that I might not be able to return. And so I study the footwide cedar planks that form the interior, siblings to each other such that you can trace the mirror images of the saw blade turns in two side by side. And I look at the modest furnishings, someone’s extras, that together create invitation and coziness. A saggy old mattress, abandoned old paperbacks, bindings creased, this funky little fake fire that doubles as a heater. I take in the view, the size and openness of the window, its height, and how you can sit in the rocking chair with your feet resting on the soft bench below the sill and sit for days and nights before the open window with the ocean breeze ever flowing gently over you and the crushing, eternal sound of the surf near and far abiding. And I wonder what will become of all these things, and how they are in the process of losing.