2015: A Postlude
He clenches his fist. The wet sand squeezes between his fingers. He rises. He is clad in the tattered remnants of jeans. He has been gone a long while. He knows this. His body aches, but the ache feels normal, healthy. Several scars dapple his right shoulder but they are old hurts long since healed. He does not remember where he has been. And perhaps that is for the best.
He shades his eyes from the warm sun, gazing up the stretch of the coast that girds the nearby forest. Those are the Pine Barrens, he recalls.
A figure is walking toward him. A woman. She is a bright shadow against the orange swell of the sun. He loves her. This he knows though he cannot recall her name. Not now.
He walks toward her, his heart full, his eyes wet. There is something in his hand. It is small, oval, convex, concave. The center holds a red iris. It stares out at the world with longing and hate.
But here, as he moves toward that figure, embracing her, reciting her name as it comes to him, there is only love, and the glass eye, battered by salt and time, cannot touch it.