The tide had gone out an hour ago, leaving the beach shining like the inside of a shell. The sun sat low and swollen over the sea, turning the wet pebbles to copper.
Halfway up the shore lay a rowing boat. Its blue paint had faded to the colour of an old pair of jeans and peeled back in curls, showing the grey wood beneath. One oar rested across the seats; the other was missing. A coil of rope, stiff with salt, trailed from the front like a tail.
From the boat, a single line of footprints led up the beach towards the dunes. They were deep and close together at first, as if whoever made them had been carrying something heavy, then further apart, almost running, before they vanished into the marram grass.
Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries thin and sharp. The air smelled of seaweed and woodsmoke, although there was no house in sight. Every few seconds, a wave hissed up the pebbles and slid back, rattling them like coins in a pocket.
Nobody came back for the boat that evening. As the sun slipped into the sea, the footprints began to soften and fill, and by the time the first star appeared, the beach had kept its secret.