Winter. Late afternoon.
The beach is empty. The air is grey-blue.
The ocean is grey-silver, scattered with foamy white waves.
At the high-tide mark is a long wooden, railed walkway leading to
an old gazebo perched on top of the highest dune.
Inside the gazebo is a picnic table with benches.
Under the table is a pair of small deck shoes.
Between the shoes is an empty styrofoam coffee cup.
The most interesting thing is on the table. An open book.
The pages on the left are flapping lightly with the breeze.
The pages on the right are clipped together by a pen.
They struggle to move with the wind..
On that first page on the right is a single handwritten line.
In the most delicate and precise penmanship. It says...
"I am going home."