That morning, I made sure I put my cloak on over my robes. It was too early in the year for windstorms, but I knew there would be enough this morning to need an extra layer.

I could already imagine stepping outside, and being hit with a warm gust of sea salt and sand. 

Actually, I tilted my head, everything was blue. My cloak, my robes, the belt that wrapped around my waist so that I could carry bottles. But not the cloak's clasp. The clasp was a shiny, white, faux shell.

I probably wouldn't have picked this cloak myself. I doubt I would've even bought one in the first place. A friend gave this to me before I left. I wear it to prove to myself that I'm thankful for it. She died a long time ago.

I straighten the cloak against my robes, before stepping out of my room, and locking my bedroom door behind me.

The floors throughout the house are wood—there's no point having anything else when the world around you is made out of sand.

It is a short walk from my room to the main room, where the walls are lined with shelves, and the shelves are lined with jars. This room attaches to the kitchen, which only contains what a kitchen would need, and the bathroom tucked away like a broom closet is much the same.

I can tell when someone lives a big existence—their bodies tend to tense up upon entering. They fold their body into their chest whenever they get the chance, and when they see how barren the bathroom and kitchen are, they look around to make sure they haven't missed anything.

I wonder what has happened in their life that has made them look around like that—I wonder if someone has every linked their arms together and said:

"Ah! So you've seen past my illusion. I am glad not everyone here is mundane and unimportant. Here...here is the real room!"

I wonder where I can find a house like that. She would've deserved it.

I grab a few empty jars tucked under the till, and leave, locking the door behind me.

I couldn't possibly imagine anyone wanting to break in. People come in to buy what they need, and they leave.

Of course, I tried to make it look presentable when I first moved in. I tidied up the loose strands of grass and flowers sprouting at the sides, and cleaned the neglected stained windows. I even repainted the house a light purple, it was her favorite color.

As I walk further and further from the house, along the sloped side of the cliff, it fades behind me. Most days I don't bother wearing any shoes—my feet have gotten used to any surprising rough patches on this terrain.

There is still enough undergrowth that makes it so that I need to watch my step, but most of it is mud.

Here, time doesn't move the way it should—the days in front of me stretch out, so that one hour from now is miles out of my reach. But everything behind me can be comfortably packed in the suitcase I brought with me.

I scan the ground for shells—even after only one year, I've learned how to do it quickly, with accuracy.

"Won't do, won't do..." I mutter to myself, gaze skimming over the ground several times, "Ah!" I picked a shell from the mud, carefully wiping the mud off to see if it would do. It does. That's rare. Then again, a lot of things don't work the way they should here—with the wind coming early, and time not moving properly.

I keep walking along the path I made for myself. It's not a physical path, not yet—my feet found their own way down one day, and it's the way they've been taking me ever since.

Sometimes I need to remind myself to go off the path to find something.

It's important to find good shells—I use them for spells. Usually, I'll crush them. It's nothing mindless, I always have an intention—you always need an intention. I sell them in jars with labels, along with seasalt, and plants I find by the ocean.

I feel my magic the strongest here—the sea has always called to me.

I know some people use crystals instead, but those never seemed to work for me.

The sound of children playing becomes louder the closer I get to the shore line, and the wind begins to push against my cloak.

I remember when I was a child—it's one of the smaller, more distant things in my suitcase. It's buried under all the other things, like something I brought with me out of nostalgia, but never used, and perhaps never needed in the first place.

People say they miss it—their childhood, but for me, it blended into my adulthood so well, I can hardly tell the difference. Sometimes I wonder if it was different for her—if she had a definite divide.

I don't have any divides in my life, even for before and after I met her—I've known her my whole life.

I don't even have a divide for before and after she died—I can still see her walking around between the walls in my house.

It was easy to spot the children running across the beach, one had on a red hat, the other in a yellow shirt. Their mother called to them once I came into her view—I knew she would bring them near, and tuck them under her arms until she was sure I was gone. Of course, the children ignore me. They've always ignored me, it's something I find comfort in.

Sometimes it feels like I'll never leave this place. My soul is bound here. Even if the ocean didn't remind me of her—I'm sure I'd still stay.

I keep walking along the shore, away from the family until I come to the cruelest part of the beach. Here, the waves whip against the rocks—tongues lashing out against an uncaring opponent. Seashells often wash up here broken and shattered. I wasn't looking for those—the strongest few would wash up here unscathed, and those were the strongest for spellbinding.

You never want to do it with shells you found broken. Your best case scenario was that it didn't work—the worst was that it backfired.

She used broken shells once. Of course, we were only mocking magic then—we were too young to know it was real.

"This is what you want to do," she said, crushing it until it was a fine powder, "my grandmother does this," she chuckled, continuing to crush up the shells.

I didn't know why anyone would want to do such things.

"I'm making a love spell," she explained. I don't remember who she liked, or if she even told me.

She grabbed a sand dollar that was split down its side and began to crush it up. I only learned she shouldn't have done it from a book I read much later.

"You have to wait until this is a powder before you can start tearing apart the roses." She must've learned it from her grandmother.

There was a pile of dried roses in my lap. I'd been picking them up and dropping them back into my lap while I watched her crush up the shells. There was also a lighter, a folded piece of paper, and a red candle next to her.

Once the shells were a fine powder, she let me tear up the dried rose petals to sprinkle the pieces into the bowl. I watched her mix it all together, before she picked up the candle. She held the candle up over the bowl while she ignited the lighter, and lit the wick. The flame was steady as she set the candle down in the bowl, and held the piece of paper over it.

"This will come true," she whispered, once the paper was aflame, before dropping it into the bowl where it curled on its side and turned to ash. I thought it was a funny thing to say at the time, but I now know that it's a promise to the universe that you want the spell to come true.

I'm sure it did. I'd never heard anyone saying they'd fallen in love with her, but I'm sure they did, because that's the only explanation.

When I look down the side of mountains, I can follow my fears down to the bottom where they're all tangled up in tree roots—that's why I don't care for crystal magic, I'd have to live in the mountains.

I put some more shells into jars, and kept walking along the shore.

I don't care for mountains, and mountains never cared for me—I've heard of them giving protection to people, providing them with wealth and luck, but all they've provided me with is desolation.

The sea crashes at my feet, hungrily searching for something to drag away into its depths. I know whatever falls victim to it will never reach the shore again.

When I see it doing this, I know it is time to turn around. I have nothing to give it.

I walk back until I can hear the shouts and squeals of the children—it sounds like there are more now. This time when I see them, their mothers don't attempt to gather them in their grasp until I'm gone, but I can still feel their eyes pressed against me.

The children pay no attention to me, however, and I pay little attention to them. I only pay attention to children when they are playing by my house, near the cliff.

Falling is an unfair death. It is unwarranted, if anything. Besides, I've already seen it once—not with children, I've never let it happen to a child.

I push the image out of my head, and look up towards the cliff. My modest, yet durable house sits at its edge, alone.

I scan my surroundings, unsure of where to tread.

It's funny—I always have a difficult time finding how to get back up, as though I don't know the way down like the face of an old friend.