Lightning continued to flash in the distance, thunder quietly following suit, though the storm had since passed over the immediate area. The sand was wet and churned up, and the ocean revolted against the sky, crashing against the shore in its rage. The rain was nothing more than a soft drizzle, falling gently in occasional droplets, reminding the earth of the heaven’s might. He walked along the coast, peering out across the waves with crimson eyes. Dark clouds hung above oppressively, like a ceiling over the sea, pressing down all around.

         It was dawn, but it may as well have been midnight for all of the light that the clouds let pass through them. The silver bracelets on his wrist jingled quietly in the calm that followed the storm, broken only by a low, distant rumble. Debris had washed up on the sand—driftwood, seaweed, and dead, decaying sea life in minimal amounts—and these he observed in silent contemplation. In his back pocket was a nearly finished flute that he’d been carving from wood.

         This he removed before seating himself on the wet sand, facing the ocean and turning the crudely whittled thing around in his clawed hands. He’d never been particularly good at this, but he was learning and growing every day through experience. Placing the end to his lips, he blew gently, allowing a sweet, shrill sound to rise on the air, yet undulating with the electrical currents residual from the now distant storm. Fingers covering holes, he played different notes, testing his little piece of work.

         He was not so eloquent, so educated, in worldly practices as he’d have desired to be. He was well enough read, but his interactions were sometimes awkward and forced, even if he held an air of nonchalant ease about him outwardly. He felt judgment and he felt revulsion even if no external signs were given. She took the flute, raising it to her own lips and blowing gently on the little thing, creating notes unpracticed and unmelodic. But he smiled regardless, for he cherished any contact far removed from what he was accustomed to. “Neither did I when I began,” he said, smile easy.

         He could not judge, for he was the lowest of the low—the last able to cast a stone. He could breeze along, only bringing critique to himself and his own existence. He took it when she offered it back, scrapping a nail along one rough edge, focusing eyes momentarily on the crude corner and desiring his tools to immediately fix the flaw, though he refrained, tearing his eyes reluctantly away.

         Later; he’d have to remember to adjust it later. “Yes,” he returned, meeting crimson eyes once again. “I’m Valentine,” he offered.