Blackwater Islands It all falls into the sea.

The dawn came and went, came and went, each time bringing rain that poured in to his mouth, that pulsed the dry riverbed of his throat.

This final time he was able to look at her with focus, and squinted against the golden light that rolled from her face.

Somewhere in his mind the ghost knew this was wrong; the dawn could not have a face, it was not alive. That place which knew the world was far away now.

It was better than the shadows — perhaps that was why he stared. When had the light ever chosen him?