A sailor to the core. His eyes are the green of the deepest ocean, the crash of waves fierce within them, bright with a sheen of sparkling sunlight. Salted spray highlights the rough edges of his face, his skin aglow with the healthy flush that comes with so much time spent out in the elements. More often than not, his captain's hat sits skewed on his head, forever precarious yet never giving in to the risk, and that is true today.

She is sure she sees him now, formed of the evening's haze, clear and bright as the north star as he guides her home. But then the wind rips through him as it does a loose sail cast adrift, no mast to hold him down, and he is gone.

With a shake of her head, she continues. Her boots strike the pavement sharply. Ahead, the road is shrouded in mist, a cloak to hide the high rise of houses peering down on her. The sky matches the dim gloom with its melancholy clouds of grey, gradually darkening as the pale sun is suffocated by the horizon. It has been this way all day, and she is growing tired of it.

Her eyes flick to the other side of the street, from which the faint chatter of a gaggle of teenagers drifts. Her step quickens. As gloomy as the day is, the night is swooping in fast, and she wants to be home before the storm arrives.

The road bends, and she follows it, entering the cliff path. Her eyes fall, focusing on the hasty rhythm of her steps as they navigate their way through the frosted clumps of grass. Perhaps a pace to her left, the ground drops away steeply, a jagged sheet of fang-like rocks.

She tries not to look too closely. She has walked this path many times, and is no longer afraid of falling, yet she fears the bottom of the cliff for another reason.

Another shake of her head, and she bends to the right, looking up as she reaches for the pocket of her trousers. She draws out her keys, slides them into the rusted lock, and she is in. The wind whistles behind her. Tugging at her coat, she crosses the threshold, the door snapping closed behind her to shut out the grey of the day.

She sighs, leaning back for a moment to catch her breath. When her thoughts begin to whir, she shrugs them away along with her coat.

Without a backward glance, she travels up the stairs, paying the sand-yellow walls little attention. Pictures hang on the landing, the rail crowded with memories. The homemade frames are clustered with seashells. She avoids their stare, but the one that hangs from her bedroom door snatches her attention, anchoring her feet to the floor. Her hand knotted with his, both of them beaming from the bow of a ship. She taught him to steer that day.

Half-heartedly, she reaches for it, planning to take it down, but she hasn't the courage and so reaches for the door handle instead. She will remove them later. Perhaps on a nicer day.

Entering the room, she makes for the bed, desperate to keep moving. Yet like a fishing boat lost in the swell of a storm, her eyes are dragged to her desk. She stops.

Even in the evening's dull light, it shines. From the eagle-shaped figurehead to the rounded stern, the boat is delicately carved. The ocean's brightest blues paint its exterior, highlighted with laces of gold that reach up the single mast. White sails billow out as if caught in a breeze. Not a single spec of dust covers any part of it, for it is well-cared for, treasured nearly as much as the person who gifted it to her.

As if caught in a trance, she reaches for it, tracing the golden letters that dance along the boat's hull. He named it after her. He told her that one day, he might make it reality. One day, they would sail out in a ship just like this, together, bound only by their wish to travel every inch of the sea's eternal stretch.

Strange how easily a person can lie.

Her hand curls around the mast. In one swift motion, she casts it from the desk, tossing it towards the floor with a force far greater than any storm-filled wind.

It shatters on impact, cracks splintering the hull, slicing through the name inscribed on its side. Once a beautiful gift, and now nothing but broken pieces, shimmering faintly blue. She marches through the centre of the destruction, her boots tapping dully against the shards. Her fists clench, then relax, her surge of hissing fury fading as suddenly as it came.

At the window, she rests her elbows, a finger swiping away the dirt on the glass. Outside, a storm is howling. Waves beat at the cliff, watery claws tearing at earth and rock. Occasionally, a clump falls away, swallowed by the sea. Anything can break under the right force.

The rain hammers, a rhythmic tap at the window. She presses her forehead against the glass, not caring for the chill seeping through it. Though the window is tightly sealed, droplets of seawater leak inside, tracing their salty paths down her cheeks.

The ocean swells and roars, in the same way his eyes used to when he was angry, when he was hurt, when he told her he had to go. But this voyage was for him alone. It seems a model boat was the closest they could get to something eternal, and even that now lies broken.