Morning glare on the aft deck

Luheng stands by the rail with a loose grip on the binoculars, rubber eyecups pressed together like a closed thought. The jacket is the colour of dry sand; its seams catch narrow lines of light. Three signal lamps climb the mast beside him—red glass, then clear, then steel housings with small scratches that only appear when the sun hits them. Behind everything the horizon is bleached, sea and sky running into the same pale tone.

Nothing dramatic happens. He isn’t scanning the water; he’s letting the brightness soak in. The lenses hang in the space between intention and rest. Wind moves only the hem of the coat. The deck metal throws back a thin reflection, and the lamp brackets make a quiet rhythm up the frame. It reads less like a pose and more like a held breath: a person, some light, a flat morning that stretches farther than the picture can hold.