To this day, he waits on the sand. Staring out over the waves as the
white foam rolls in and tickles his toes. The water’s coldness registers
in a small part of his mind that isn’t consumed with the memory. He
could be standing on hot coals and still, he wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t even
shift from foot to foot.

There was once a pattern to his vigil. Each day, he stood on the beach at
the same time, peering across to the horizon. Watching. Searching. Waiting.
At the same time every day. Six o’clock, regardless of the season.

That’s what time it was when she first came to him.