Once there was a ghost who fell in love with a lady by the sea. It happened here on the sand and rock, against the brine and rhythm and salt.
The ghost first fell in love with her forlorn beauty. And then her smile. And as the ghost haunted her, it fell in love with her spirit. It loved her so hard that it clawed a hole from the world of the dead into the world of the living and tried to take her home to that dead place.
But the ghost was part of the sea, and the sea wants blood. Everyone who lives on the coast and alongside its waves should know that.
The cold of the sea sank its fingers into the lady’s once-warm flesh, into her slowing heart. For a moment, the ghost and the sea were one, and she became one with them, and in another kind of story, this might have been an ecstasy.
We only know the one kind of story: the life in her seeped away, and she died, like all tragic lovers torn between worlds.
The romantics would say they are now ghosts together in the world of the living. But those who walk the coast and brush against its enigmatic nature know the story better. We say that when the ghost broke through the worlds, something shattered in the way people die here, and no one can mend the wound. The romantics might also say that lovers who’ve been torn apart between worlds can at least reunite in the world of the dead.
But those aren’t the kinds of stories we tell in the uncertain places by the sea.