The sea is beautiful this time of year. You only saw it in fragments, all those miles ago: broken apart coral, strings of seaweed, one half of a seashell. You loved the parts separate, alone. It has stitched itself together now, wading in its own waters. Its wet hands still burn from holding onto frayed cords. I think you always preferred the earth, safe in trenches, turning your face to gold and painted faces. I hope the strange sun covers your body in warm rays. But from the ocean or the dirt, the ticking of the timepiece sounds the same.
I was going to save this for 100 words, but sometimes you just need one more.