Saved from dozing off at the seashore by the water lapping at his feet, reaching his heels before it retreats, sand between his toes and sticking to his skin—It should be uncomfortable, but it just makes him want to dig his feet in deeper, roll around on the great expanse of golden soil until he can never fully wash it off—So that this place stays with him for days to come, so he can carry around the sound of waves breaking, the salty smell of seaweed in the air, the feeling of the breeze on his bare skin—So there's never any chance for him to speak, knowing his voice is prone to drown in the water that abruptly meets the shore and the whistle of the wind.