The island of St. Morwenna was far from the ideal place. The waters of the shores were calm and sound, edges decorated with jagged rocks, colored black by the ware of centuries. The sands were constantly dark with dampness, and the waters were a threatening shade of blue. The sky was constantly rolled with clouds, and there always seemed to be a bite in the windy, raw air. However, for the inhabitants living on St. Morwenna, it couldn’t have been a more perfect place.

The day for Hauser Palachefski would start at 6:00 AM, each and every being the same no matter what day of the week. He’d take his bike, a beat-up and rusty old thing, and ride down to the shoreline with its black rocks and dark sands. The breaks and tires would squeal, in need of obvious oiling, all throughout the dirt road leading down to the murky waters. His two-color face nearly always held a blank expression, devoid of any feeling or expression. He was content for it to be this way, for it to be that his features reflected his insides as a mirror reflected his outsides. His tires came to a stop on the verge of the darkened sands that marked the perimeter of the beach. The day was ice; the air had a bite like a dog and the clouds overhead spun and swirled with their navy-blue color casting downwards onto the earth, matching that of the tide. The sun had barely yet risen as the ocean had stretched yet to the sky seen beyond. No islands, no boats on this small expanse of beach. Nay, the choppy waters were bare and desolate, a desert in this equally dismal place.

Hauser rested his bike between a rock and a dry shrub, the typical place he used for storage. WIthin his first years on the island, he kept it within the bush. However, in the years following he had noticed the rather barren population about the small town. Now, as he had decided, it was not worth keeping it in hiding. With his bike now set and his helmet placed beside it, he stripped himself of his slip-ons, taking the shoes into the crooks of his middle and forefinger. Letting out a small, echoing whistle, Hauser approached the wet sands of the early-morning tide. His feet allowed small imprints to be pressed into the sands, marking his placement on the beach. The water that morning held a ghastly mist, as it did nearly each dawntime that the boy would arrive. He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the salty taste of the vast ocean beyond him. It sometimes felt that there was no escape from the place, that possibly nobody else had existed. That nothing else had existed, nor would it exist for the duration of the time spent in that dreary place. However, he didn’t complain too much. Hauser had learned to be content with most things in his life: This was one. Bending down at where the small, foaming waves met the sands, the boy dug his fingers into the ground below. There was nothing else, no. Nothing else existed on that beach besides him. The feeling of aloneness, of cold was indescribable. It was missed each time he had to leave. Shall he just skip another day of school?

“Hauser!”