The first time Neil sees you, he thinks you’re nothing more than part of the mist that looks over the water. The second time is when the mist clears and you remain with your feet buried in the shore.

He watches as you wade your hands in the crystal-clear water. Your fascination with it reminds him of a woman he used to know.

Neil’s learned that time doesn’t exist the way it should here. He’s tried to tally the days, taking a stick to the sand, but the Beach wipes them clean each time. A reset of sorts.

So when he encounters you for the third time, he doesn’t know if it’s been days or years.

On this occasion, you yell at the seagulls that squabble overhead. Your temper reminds him of his own, so does the way you kick your foot out in tandem. You throw pebbles at them how he used to when he was a young boy.

Neil assumes it’s that very detail that encourages him to move toward you. The black sand beneath his feet accepts it all, like it’s been waiting for this moment. Neil walks and walks and walks — until he swears your hair’s starting to tickle his arm and he can smell the scent of Chrism oil off of you.

“Papá!” you grin, spinning on your heel to face Neil. You carry his accent with you like a piece of jewelry when you say that word.

“Do you think I can build a sandcastle on here? With a moat? I’ve never been on a beach with black sand before.”