The eternal sea breeze, drifting in from the coast. Teenagers drink atop the Lion's Head, waiting for the early morning bells to carry them down to their churches, temples, shrines. In the streets, as the café owners set up their awnings, the leathery elders are already set up, cards dealt and ready to play. A dog chases its bright yellow spherical prey to the shore, revelling in the foam which crashes onto the sand.
The azure sea stretches from horizon to horizon, its rippling ravels forming a net for any foolish enough to venture out. The lack of walls is an enclosure of sorts; each direction indistinguishable, each haze sparking hope of warm land before receding into the heat.
A speck mars the canvas, a black spot which draws in the hungry waves. To call it a ship would be generous, though it does boast a sail, stitched together from shirts and sheets. A figure lies on the deck, taking up half its length. In miniature, by her side, is a small origami boat, folded from a playing card.
The tattered remains of a jumper support her head, which is dry despite the searing sun. No moisture left to sweat, as the craft drifts endlessly.
She licks cracked lips with a deserted tongue, a clumsy hand moving to clutch the boat. With a final surge of energy, she crushes it. She makes the moment last, each crumple filling the time, delaying the inevitable, final compactification.
It rolls out of her hand as she falls back. In the end, it could not have gone any other way. And if she had to choose again, she would do the same again.
A swell rolls over the boat. It resists, then tips, crashing unceremoniously upside-down. The water swallows it quickly.
There is no longer any such place as Anastius & Horasa.
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