The old pier

 There was once a proud old pier that stretched into the bay, its weathered planks worn smooth by generations of fishermen, lovers, and children diving into the waves. For decades, it was the heart of the town. A place of laughter, trade, and connection.

But as time passed, the sea changed. Storms grew fiercer. The fish migrated. New docks were built with stronger materials, designed to endure. Yet when villagers suggested reinforcing the pier or adapting it for new uses, the elders refused. "It has always been this way," they said. "We will not bend."

So the pier remained, unchanged, unyielding. The wood rotted in places, nails rusted, and railings splintered. Still, the town clung to nostalgia, insisting it was fine as it was. One by one, people stopped coming. The fishermen moved to sturdier docks. The children found safer places to swim. Until one day, after a storm, a large section collapsed into the sea.

The town mourned, but the truth was clear: the pier had not been destroyed by the storm. It had been destroyed by stubbornness, the refusal to evolve, to accept that survival requires adaptation. In the end, the sea always wins. 

The only choice is whether we float or sink with the past.