THEY CALL IT THE GOLDEN hour, that period of time right before sunset when the sky glows orange and the shadows lose their edges, and the world becomes, for the space of about 20 minutes, something elevated and painterly—ephemeral, even sublime. That’s how the world felt as I sat on the rocks and watched the waves crash and spume—sublime. A thing of such grandeur and beauty that we couldn’t help but to stand in awe. And yet, at the same time, weren’t we part and parcel? Weren’t we built of the same materials—the same substantia primae—and woven into its fabric like threads? And—that being the case—weren’t we special too?
“You know it’s funny,” said Amelia, her voice sounding distant, muted, as though it were coming from a thousand miles away, “but somehow I knew you’d be here.”
I looked
