He’d heard her calling him last night, calling his name, in that lighthearted way she used to. Tom, Tom …. Then she was gone. No face, just her voice. And now this morning her presence lingered in the early morning air. It’s no use dreaming, he thought, she’s gone.

He threw back the thin covers, slid his pyjama clad legs over the side of the bed and sat up, surveying the dimmed room. Silence enveloped him like a soft silken scarf, like her scarf, the one he’d given her for her last birthday. He felt an unfamiliar calm, wondering what was different. Then he sighed, recognizing the stillness in the air. The wretched storm, that had raged and battled the coast for the last few days, had passed, moving on to new playgrounds. The wind no longer roared along the beach, tangling with the trees and attacking his house. Nature no longer held him in captivity, he could venture out for the first time in days.

Old Tom shuffled to the window and drew back the faded curtains. The gentle blue sky looked innocently down on the beach, as if the last few days hadn’t happened. Driftwood and other unrecognizable treasures thrown up by the sea littered the deserted beach. The sea no longer crashed angrily onto the unsuspecting sand, but gentle breakers rolled in, rushing and stretching out to retrieve some of the deposited debris. Sensing the sea’s restlessness, a contrary moodiness almost, he knew it wasn’t yet ready to be stilled. Tom, Tom, the sea beckoned him, just like she had last night. It was a day just like this, he thought, then instantly shut his mind and heart to the memory.

No longer imprisoned by the storm, Tom decided to go for a walk to shake off his uninvited memories. He dressed quickly and with damp marram grass swishing around his ankles he ambled down the sandy path from his cottage, onto the outstretched beach. To his surprise two sets of small footprints had already disturbed the rippled sand. The sun’s welcome rays warmed the chill morning air. Tom smiled, closed his eyes and breathed in the morning freshness.  This was the kind of morning he liked best.

He picked up a long, twisted stick, weathered smooth by the sea over time, and walked close to the sea’s edge. The sand was damp and hardened, the water not quite reaching his sandalled feet. The waves rippled daringly towards him, like a playful kitten finding out how brave it could be. The fury of the last few days had vanished.