ALEX
Waves splash against the shore with calm abandon. At six in the afternoon, the sun has long disappeared on the horizon, but the breeze is still warm and salty against my face.
Zander crouches on the water’s edge, rolling a seashell in his hand before throwing it into the sea. He stands and walks a line on the opaque sand, occasionally bending over to pick seashells and throwing them in the ocean. I follow close behind.
“I think it’s right here,” Zander says, stopping. The line he walked on is suddenly luminous amidst the dark night, and for a moment I think of witches and magic before I realize it’s bioluminescence. Zander looks across the bay, his eyes a mirror of sadness as the stars blink and disappear into the divide.
“I scattered her ashes here,” he resumes. “They cremated he
