When the phone call came, after nearly a month of radio silence after her "gap year" from college — it reminded him that the tide always left eventually.

"Hey, Natey… I just wanted to let you know I'm in, um… São Paolo, now. It's nice! Really nice. I've never seen water so blue! Anyway, I actually made a friend in the Peace Corps… and I was— well, I was thinking that maybe I'll stay for a couple weeks? They have a couple programs that run for a couple months or even up to a year — I mean, I probably won't stay that long — but it's about giving back to people who need help. It's so beautiful out here, and—"

He didn't remember the call ending. Only the sound of something shattering.

It took him a while to realize it had been his phone.

Afterwards, he found himself by the beach behind the house, all the way down the cliffside stairs, with a lighter and photograph in hand.

The photo. The goddamn photo, some corny, staged shit that Sean had paid way too much for when they were kids. He'd swiped it from the foyer. Maybe the housemaid would notice, but Sean wouldn't. Or care, really. There were more than enough photos there to prove what a "loving" family they all were.

His eyes caught hers in the photograph. He looked away before she could.

"Shit," he cursed as his fingers slipped the sparker. Goddamn sweaty palms, or maybe it was just the humidity. The horizon looked gray, like maybe a storm was coming.

All of a sudden, the wind dropped to a murmur.

"Nate," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'll always-"

"Shut the fuck UP!" The scream ripped out of him.

The words disappeared into the surf.

The sea answered with nothing.

He grabbed a rock — it was colder and wetter than he expected, and unpleasantly sandy — and chucked it at the black, empty sheet of the sea. It landed with a pathetic splash.

Weak.

You're weak, Nathan.

"Shut up…" he exhaled shakily, shaking his head. Was he hyperventilating? No, he wasn't hyperventilating, was he? But if he wasn't, then why were his eyes burning…? "Just…"

Just breathe, Nathan.

Count to four, hold, then release for four…

He listened to the instructions in his head.

Dr. Jacoby's voice always made him feel more in control.

And anyway, this was just… clearing his mind. Nothing else. It didn't even fucking matter — it wasn't a big deal. Everyone around him always made everything a bigger deal than it needed to be…

Finally, everything went silent in his mind. Was this what they called the 'eye of the storm'? The strange stillness before everything burned. His chest felt light, unburdened, and his mind was pleasantly numb.

Most importantly, his fingers were no longer shaking like some goddamn old person in a home.

He flicked the wheel. The scent of burning stabbed him in the nostrils. It was sharper than the smoky, roasted pull of cigarettes.

The fire found her smile first.

It licked at the edge of her countenance, curled it inward, blackened her eyes, then consumed her face entirely. Then it reached for the space between them, hollowing it out, erasing it from existence.

He expected to feel something. Anger, maybe, or vindication. But he felt nothing.

He stared at the photo until it was a gaping maw of fire, and tossed it into the ocean. The waves reclaimed Kristine as effortlessly as it always had.

She had never been his lighthouse. He knew that.

But when the tide carried her away, nothing remained between Nathan and everything waiting on shore.

Elle n’était pas un refuge. Mais elle était tout ce qui lui restait. She wasn’t a refuge. But she was all he had left.