The scent of the tide was a little fainter than I remembered.

Yet, the sound of the waves remained unchanged. Only that rhythm—surging and receding, receding and surging again—seemed to deny the years that had flowed through this place.

I stood by the shore, still clutching the letter. The corners of the envelope had grown soft from being read and reread so many times.

How many years has it been since I last came here?

Five years, ten years... or perhaps even longer. Even as I try to remember, time slips through my fingers like an indistinct mist. This place was supposed to be a part of my own life, yet before I knew it, it had become as distant as a landscape in someone else's dream.

The seaside promenade was a bit faded, but it hadn't crumbled. The breakwater, the small lighthouse, and the houses lined up on the hill all remained.