4
The paintings that graced the walls of Serin’s childhood home were snippets of an ever-shifting ocean. The white-washed walls of the central living room were the perfect backdrop for the stormy seascapes. Most her mother painted, but here and there one by her father was slipped in, almost indistinguishable in terms of style or execution. Nevertheless, Serin always knew which ones they were. She was the only one who could tell them apart.
The paintings were different each time she visited, despite being relentlessly the same. She used to love the stormy seascapes best, but they had lost something now. They were a pale imitation of the very real memories she had of being one with the raging sea, formless and far from any boat or landmass.
The newest picture dominated the living room wal
