It doesn’t seem that long ago—time didn’t seem to have any meaning anymore. Hank envisioned his wife’s lips forming a smile; the image coaxed one from his own.
There she stood, her long frame leaning against the bowsprit of his sloop. Emma was so beautiful against the red of the sky, her sandy colored hair blowing wildly about her face.
That face—the sun always brought out the freckles on Emma’s face. And though she always scoffed about the sepia specks, Hank saw them as little badges of beauty. Each one made her more unique.
A heavy breath flowed steadily from his lips as he closed his eyes, recalling his deceased wife and the argument on the way out to sea, only a couple of miles past Topsail Inlet.
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