xxxxxxxxxxxxxThe Finding

xxxxSomedays, Candace was transported to the past. She was taken to a time, three or four years ago now, where she had found out what it was to be useless and unwanted while one still drew breath. Sometimes, she could not help it. On those nights, when her memory became convinced that it didn't want to let her sleep or know any kind of waking peace, she went on walks. Walks had become a source of endless comfort for her; it didn't shake the thoughts away nor give her any comfort - it simply gave her mind something to focus on. Even in the dark, one of her favourite places to walk was the sea shore; though she could not see it well nor know where she was walking (and frequently her toes squished into soaked sand instead of dry sand), she heard the soft whisper. It sounded so comforting, the quiet sound of water licking at the beach's shape, constantly forming and shifting and making something new out of things that had always existed and likely always would. The slight smell of salt in her nose took her away from the earthy smells of home - just the little things to remind her that she wasn't there anymore, that she was here, in - in Amies.

xxxxIt was still mindblowing when she woke up each morning. She wasn't in the tiny farmhouse, in a tiny, uncomfortable bed, with her huge husband, waiting to see if he'd get up or roll over and grunt in that way that meant she was in for ten minutes of misery and it was so hard to fathom. Every morning, she pinched herself, wondering if that'd wake her up again, if she'd turn and open her eyes and see her husband, breathing deeply in his sleep, the only time he looked even slightly appealing, like a small child. She had always wanted to play with his hair, seeing the slight smile on his face as he slept, but she'd always feared it would awaken him. In the here, and now, wanting to stop these thoughts, finding herself even missing her husband, she shook her head violently, brown curls flying every which way in response.

xxxxNo matter how common these fits of depression were, it was quite rare that she would actually physically cry. She had figured her feelings were due to the new place she was in, even after years, and not due to any actual longing to be back where she had come - from living in the city, she had realised how horrible it was. Hearing of Helene, she learned that some women had status and rights and power, as mindblowing as it was. She had learned that her old home was nothing to be proud of - in fact, it was something to be ashamed of, how backwater and crude it was - and thus nothing to mourn or cry over. And yet, here Candace Provdan was, walking a beach at probably close to midnight, with tears starting to pour down her face. The tears were coming too thick and hard to make any kind of real noise beyond pathetic whimpers as her shoulders shook and her legs slowly gave way, her body falling to the sand where she settled, hugging her knees tightly and staring out at the sea when she could see it by the pale light of the sky and when the tears allowed anything more than a formless, slightly glowing blur. It was shameful, she knew, to cry like this . . . But it was all she could think to do. She sat there for a good while, sobs wracking her shoulders, until she found it in herself to finally breathe deeply, finally restore some measure of calm.

xxxxIt was.. so pretty. She'd never looked at the sea this way. Never.. Seen it like this, gently illuminated, calling to her, and her fingers found their way into the soft and smooth froth of the water. She half wanted to go for a swim - it felt right, like home, like a place she'd belong, the whispers of water on glassy sand still hitting her ears faintly. Her own eyes hazed over as she watched, longed, her fingers running through the foam as though it would become tangible, as though she could pick it up and bring it to herself.

xxxxThis was much better than walking - it was infinitely better. Her heart felt a little less hollow, a little less empty, and she eventually allowed her eyes to close. She sat there for what could've been seconds or an eternity - both seemed equally plausible - until the soft whisper was disrupted with a quiet tink of glass against her well groomed but now irreparably sandy nails. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she opened her eyes again, though they opened wide at the sight of the bottle there. It seemed to almost glow in its intensity - not a physical light, no, it was just a simple glass bottle catching the light of the heavens, but still, it was for her and she knew it had to be for her, like there was a link, a link between them, this inanimate bottle and her, that was so strong it shone in the darkness. Tears pricked her eyes quickly and hotly, fingers grabbed the bottle and lifted it almost reverently out of the sand, drying it dutifully on the material of her mostly soaked skirt. It was coming home with her; that was such a silly conclusion, becoming so attached to something that was probably similar to trash on a normal day, but she couldn't help it. It was coming and that was that. She sat there for a few moments more, though she stood eventually. She needed to be home - she needed to sleep; this was so impulsive, so spur of the moment, for her... She wanted to take it and think about it, to reflect.

xxxxThe bottle remained tight in her hand, her companion for the night - for she couldn't promise she'd be so attached come morning, when the catharsis of sobbing wore off. It shifted, perhaps a little agitated, as they walked away from the sea, but Candace paid it no mind - after all, a bottle couldn't move itself. When she returned home, the bottle was put on a nice shelf, away from any danger, and she went promptly to bed, exhausted from the tears.

xxxxThe bottle, for its part, set very quietly and remained motionless, but gave the vague feel that it was trying to search for water.