The cliffs howled above Daniel, and an icy wind cut through the fabric of his sweater. The rising tide lapped around his ankles and, despite the heavy rubber boots, a chill crept through there as well. It was strange, seeing the sheer, stone face from this angle having looked down on this spot so many times.
Daniel lowered his gaze and looked along the strand. The beach was a strip of sea-smoothed gravel, not the kind of place you could lay out a blanket and play in the surf. He took a few steps further inland, trying to out pace the incoming ocean. From the top of the cliff, everything had seemed flat and uniform. Down here, with his feet slipping over the damp stones, Daniel could see every ripple in the sea, every tiny crab trying to scuttle back to the water as the waves moved in and out.
A voice carried on the wind, words stripped of meaning by the rushing air. Daniel turned and looked back up. Above, carefully leaning over the precipice, was Eliza. She waved, beckoned, him to come home. Slowly, carefully, Daniel climbed from the rocky beach and left the cold ocean behind.
Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction.
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