The chair sat alone, awash on the thin line between water and shore. Most days, he’d sit in the chair for hours; not fishing, just watching. ‘Drinking in the peace,’ he’d told her once.
Once hadn’t been enough. She wanted him back. In the chair. Drinking in peace. Bringing her peace by being there. But he wasn’t; he wouldn’t be ever again.
Walking to the chair, she tossed skyward the contents of the small metal box in her hands. Watched the ashes scatter in the wind, wash away in the swift current.
Now, she was the one alone.