The waves lap at the pristine shore of an island thousands of miles from any mainland. My guitar washed up last week, and despite the hammering the salt waves and blazing sun gave it, a little tuning has it sounding lovely. But then, after you’ve been alone for a month, any other voice but your own is bound to sound good.
He held the photo in his hand, struggling to reconcile the difference. She looked so happy and full of anticipation. The young woman had her whole life before her. Suddenly, his life leached of all meaning.
Determined to do something, anything—even though he couldn’t put this right—he knelt by her side and rested bared fingertips on her forehead. She didn’t complain.
The visions hit. Her life snapshotted before his eyes.