Black shadows; ashen sky. Waves lapping at my side, staining my jeans a soggy grey. Threadbare old trees, reaching tentatively up; cliffs hanging like mourning lace, cold and black and forlorn.
I missed the sea.
We move around I know that enough. But still, when the sea's been the one thing constant in your life, four months away from it seems a long time. It's good to be back.
I guess I'm grateful. I'm back at the sea, and this is a nicer place than most, a sweet little seaside town with a normal school and everything. Of course, it isn't as if anyone's going to talk to me at that school, but in a way I don't blame them. When you're told that the new kid's the sort that hears voices, you kind of want to stay away.
It's getting cold now.
I unfold my arms, let my hands skim the waves one last time before I back away. I did say I was getting home soon, anyways.
The beach is small - officially, there are two beaches in this town, big and sunny and always open for the few tourists that come here; but look a little closer and there's little stretches of sand everywhere, even ones like this, thin grey stretches littered with driftwood and surrounded by real, living wood: tall trees that arch over, thick and black, all the way until you're back at the houses - that is, if you stuck to the narrow path well enough.