He had told himself he would leave after the last wave. He always did. But the ocean has a way of holding time differently, stretching it just enough to make you believe there is still something left waiting.

The sun was already slipping behind the mountains, dissolving into gold and violet, turning the water into a mirror that remembered everything. He stepped onto the sand slowly, not from exhaustion, but from awareness. These were the last moments of the day—the quiet ones that belonged only to those who stayed.

The board rested against his side, still wet, still carrying the rhythm of the sea. He could feel the warmth of the sun fading from his shoulders, replaced by the cool promise of evening. Around him, the world was soft and forgiving. Nothing demanded anything from him here.

He paused, not to look back, but to feel it fully—the light, the air, the silence. There would always be another wave tomorrow. But this one, this last light, would never exist again in quite the same way.

So he carried it with him as he walked forward, knowing he would return.