The salt breeze brushed at the hair over Malcolm’s eyes, and the damp sand beneath his feet gave way ever so slightly to his weight as he stepped carefully, heel to toe.
He’d been here eighty-seven times since he first saw her. He’d spent his days off walking the shore from early morning until late at night, and he came early in the morning most other days, when he could. His friends were starting to drift away from him, throwing around words like “antisocial,” and “miser,” but they didn’t understand.
The cove was small, and hard to get to if the tide was high. Most people didn’t bother. This was where he saw her, though, and it was the only place he could guess that he might see her again.
Meanwhile, he’d read up a bit. There were stories out there… myths. Not from here—not from Santa Barbara, California, where big black trees loomed right on the edges of cliffs overlooking the sea—but from older worlds, Ireland and Scotland and the like. Places where magic really meant to have existed.
Maybe she was lost.