You once knew a boy who lived next to the water.
He was there every summer, maybe all year long. You only saw him in the summers when the beach was just the perfect temperature for frolicking and sandcastles and light-hearted water fights in rolling waves of aquamarine.
He lived in the old wooden beach house by the side of the beach. It hung off a cliff with half of it on land and the other half supported by a whole infrastructure of bolts and driftwood. You used to play between the scaffolding, weaving in and out of the beams like a fish through coral. He didn’t come out often. But when you squinted hard enough, you could catch him standing behind the large glass window, peeking through drawn curtains with a frown deep enough to gift him permanent wrinkles.