Wildflowers and Painted Walls

The Converse was gone.

One minute, it was there-scuffed and worn soft, a perfect contradiction to the splintered, sun-bleached boards of the Ashborne boardwalk. The next, it slipped through the cracks, swallowed whole by the tide.

Bec stood still, her socked foot pressed against the rough planks, toes curling against the chill. She peered down at the water below, a muted blur of seaweed and driftwood, her reflection barely a suggestion in its surface. The shoe bobbed once, twice, then vanished.

Figures.

She blew out a breath, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jacket, camera strap digging into her shoulder. The early morning haze hung low over the harbor, and somewhere, a seagull cried out-a broken, scratchy sound that felt more honest than poetic.

"Two days in," she muttered to herself, her voice a scratch of static against the silence, "and I'm already losing things."

"Most people lose their hearts to Ashborne," a voice called out, unexpected and too close. "Not their shoes."

Bec spun on instinct, sharp and wary. He was leaning against one of the weathered railings, hands tucked into his jacket, his face half-hidden by the hood he hadn't bothered to pull all the way up. Something about him seemed misplaced-too solid for the fading, in-between feel of the town.

For a second, neither of them moved. Bec felt the words rise in her throat, only to die before they reached her lips.

She wasn't sure if she should thank him, laugh, or just walk away.

"You always sneak up on people like that?" she asked finally, her voice edging into dry territory.

His mouth quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Only when they look like they're about to jump in after a shoe."