As the path before her dropped down a long slope to the cove below, an earthy-grey drop of shimmering boulders of brown was gently caressed by the in and out of constant waves; Nicole came across a run-down boatshed perched on the edge of the peninsula. The panels of wood were cracked and the once-blue paint, possibly the same blue that coated the cottage, was now yellowed and flaked. The dirt splattering the bottom of the building made it hard to see where earth ended and building began. The decrepit planter boxes, suspended beneath grimy windows, were overgrown with weeds, and the surrounding grass reached as high as Nicole’s knees. In the absence of human care, nature was slowly reclaiming her territory.

The only part of the property not touched by the ravages of time and neglect was a wooden bench nestled against the eastern wall. Nicole moved through a gap in the fallen picket fence, drawn to the bench. It wasn’t new – scratches, marks and dents suggested its age. But the finish was that of a piece of furniture often oiled and looked after. There was a worn carving, initials, perhaps an ‘I’ and ‘T’ or maybe ‘F’, in the centre of the backrest. It looked as though no dirt or dust had ever touched the intricate letters. Nicole glanced around, searching for further indication of someone frequenting the place, but found none and she lowered herself on to the bench.

She was all alone.

How quickly and totally the life she loved had disappeared. Perhaps she’d wake tomorrow and find this had all been a dream, or a nightmare. But the vibrant life she once had seemed so very distant now. Perhaps it was the dream, never real to begin with.

Enough. Dwelling on the past would do her no good.

‘What the hell are you doing here at my boatshed?’ An old man with a weathered face rounded the building, his voice low and full of contempt.

‘E … excuse me? Your boatshed?’

‘Yeah, my boatshed. I live ’ere. What are you doing?’

‘Oh, sorry. I had no idea …’ Nicole stared at the bedraggled man before her holding a fishing rod and tackle.

‘No idea is right.’

‘Sorry. I was just admiring the view. Taking some time out. If I’d known someone lived here I certainly wouldn’t have intruded.’

The old man seemed to be sizing her up as she spoke and she returned in kind. His brown corduroy pants were clean, but did have tears in them. His blue checked shirt also looked clean but was threadbare around the collar and elbows. His beard was long and grey, and curled in all directions at once. His blue eyes showed a hint of forgotten spark.

‘You actually live here?’ Nicole asked.

‘Yeah, I do. And I don’t like visitors.’