The light looks different years later.
Not brighter, exactly. Softer. More forgiving. The sun hangs lower in the sky this afternoon, warm without being harsh, the kind of light that settles instead of demands. It stretches across the sand in long, pale ribbons, catching in the grains and turning them briefly to gold before the tide smooths them away again, erasing the evidence without urgency.
Our child runs barefoot along the shoreline, laughter carried on the breeze, feet kicking up small sprays of sand with every step. They stop suddenly, crouching with intense focus, examining something only they can see. A shell, maybe. A smooth stone. A piece of driftwood shaped just right. Something important enough to hold the whole world still for a moment.
Damian and I sit a short distance bac
