Standstill Sandsail
The washed-out fabric snapped in the breeze, threatening to sail away from her. She let it, not caring for just one moment whether it would escape or not.
Sage knew she would be scolded if it did, and that she might even spend a few days in bed for it. The suffering wasn’t something that she was considering now, nonetheless. Today, for the first sunrise in a long span, she felt strong enough to stand and let the wind snap around her, snatching what it would.
Everything inside her was silence. She could taste the sea salt in the air, feel the soft stroke of the breeze on her skin. Today, such a sensation was sufficient. She did not need her sight to savour it. She could sink, instead, into a vision of the sea: her mind’s eye sketching a sometime beach, a seaside scene that had disappeared some years since. At least this way she could not see the truth: the sunken treasure of bones, the waste shed by a civilisation that was now singing a swan song.
“Sage,” he called out behind her, and just for a second, she forgot who he was.
She turned suddenly, sensing the wind shift around her, the cool cerulean satin loosening from her eyes. Owen caught it, thrusting out one swift hand to snatch the strip from mid-air. A bitter sinking sensation struck her before she could stop it. Disappointment.
