The sun had not yet reached its zenith, but already it painted the beach in soft gold, glinting off the polished frame of my sunglasses. I stood barefoot, my suit jacket abandoned on the lounge chair behind me, sleeves of my linen shirt rolled casually up my forearms. I rarely took vacations, but when I did, I ensured every minute of stillness was earned.

I let my gaze drift along the shoreline, across sun umbrellas and tourists half-buried in sand. The air smelled of salt and distant sunscreen. My eyes halted on a figure sitting at the edge of the lifeguard station, a young man in red, legs swinging idly as he leaned slightly forward, elbows on knees, the very picture of boredom wrapped in responsibility.

He was watching the sea, but with the kind of distant disinterest that suggested nothing had happened all morning, and likely wouldn’t. I could tell he’d been there for hours. Sunglasses pushed atop his head, a whistle hanging loosely around his neck, and the expression of someone who had counted every passing minute since dawn.

I sipped the cooled oolong in my travel tumbler. It tasted faintly of osmanthus and metal. The idea formed gradually, like the tide nudging at the shore. I wasn’t prone to idle chatter. Perhaps it was curiosity. Or perhaps I simply hadn’t spoken to anyone since breakfast, and the silence was beginning to feel too complete.

I stepped forward, feeling the warm sand shift beneath my feet. Should I ask him something mundane, like how long his shift lasts? Or something else, whether he enjoys the sea when he’s not bound to guard it? My footsteps left careful prints behind me. As I approached the tower, I found my voice before I reached him.

“You look as though you’ve memorized every grain of sand on this beach,” I said, a small smile playing at the edge of my mouth.