The beach was long and empty. The sea moved like a prairie, and the sky smelled of lavender. From above, the sun cast its warm, indifferent gaze. At the boundary between sand and water stood the little girl. A passing glance might have missed her. Just another log washed out by the sea.

But she was there all right. Perfectly still, her feet in the water, her head tilted, coal eyes gleaming, black hair streaming down her back. There she was, with the seagulls screaming at the sky and tracing geometries above her.

“Pequeña, ven! You have been out there too long.”

As the years go by, the girl thinks of the sea often. It calls her when she walks among the sharp buildings of the city, inside the elegant hotels and restaurants. She hears it when she puts on her high-heeled shoes; as she holds her child; when she makes love to her husband. At times, she forgets, but never for long.

And time will pass. The old girl finds herself in a hospital bed. She looks down into the coal eyes of another little girl, so much like her own. She moves aside the girl’s long hair and whispers in her ear what the sea taught her all those years ago.

Edited by: Maia