There’s a cove in the south that we don’t talk about. No name, no signs. A single dirt path off a main road that looks like it leads nowhere. If you drive too fast, you’ll pass it. Most do.

The water there isn’t louder, or bluer, or more photogenic. But it feels different. Time does something strange in that cove. Phones stay in bags. Conversations slow down. Some people swim. Others just sit.

We send certain clients there. Not all. Only the ones who arrive with tension in their eyes. The ones who ask for peace but don’t know how to ask quietly yet.

There’s no set-up. No towels. No music. Just stone and sea.

Last summer, a woman who hadn’t taken a day off in seven years came to the cove. We arranged a car, packed fresh fruit, and left a note that said: “Take your time.” She did. She stayed until sunset and then sent us nothing but a single word: “More.”

That was enough.

We’ve never posted a photo of this place, and we never will. We don’t name it for a reason. Some things are only sacred if you leave them untouched.