It was her. He couldn’t tell yet, but he knew. No one else would be out in a storm like this.
The wind was sprinting back and forth, changing its direction in each moment as if trying to hit him from every angle. The rain didn’t seem to ever reach the ground.
The same tearing rain had blinded him when he’d finally given up and walked away. He couldn’t remember much of that walk. Soggy holes of blissful amnesia erased some of it, and desperate daydreams overrode the rest.
What he did know is he didn’t want to remember.
At the edge of the beach he stepped onto the rocks. He could see her long dark hair whipping around her as if it belonged to the wind. She was looking out at the water, not moving.
The smaller graves had clustered around the larger one. Three children, all under five. The larger grave was three years old; the children’s were two years old, one year old, and this year. It was as if they were all counting down.
Ahmar slipped and scraped his leg on the bedrock. His fingers were so cold they could barely grip the rock. The water crashed up against the sloping rocks as if it was trying to reach him, trying to claim him.