A writer, seeking escape from the noise within, retreats to a wooden cabin on a remote island. At dawn, a veil of mist drifts across the sea, carrying the airy scent of ambrette seed. He does not rise, nor does he write — he simply lies still, listening to the rhythm of the waves. The cabin is filled with the quiet depth of sandalwood, a warm embrace that makes him feel safe. His anxiety, his self-criticism, his fears of the future — all dissolve like stones cast into the ocean, absorbed by the vastness of ambergris and cedar. He has not defeated his emotions; he has allowed them to exist, and in coexistence, he finds peace — Ataraxia.