“Stay here with me, forever” he whispered gingerly, his face buried in her untamed brown hair. They lay together in the long, lush grass, drops of fresh dew settling on their skin from the morning mist. The clearing was perched on top of a cliff, over which ran a great waterfall. Sunlight poured in, warming the clearing, the smell of a fresh day and luscious forest in the air. She rolled over, crumpling tiny green blades as she went, a playful smirk flitting at her lips. Her beauty was wild – raw. Her eyes met his, instantly locked in a passionate, lustful stare. He lifted his head, clasping her hands to his, wrapping them around his bare neck. “Stay with me” he whispered, this time, his voice rough, serious. The eternal gush from the waterfall put him on edge, his fear of heights unchanging. A light breeze blew through the clearing, bringing goose bumps to her naked skin, tendrils of her hair blowing over her neck. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Nothing could overcome the current between these young lovers. Nothing.

That was sixty-seven years ago, and now, there really was nothing. She was gone.

The water lapped slowly and repetitiously at the shore, a long way below the cliff. The sun, now setting, projected vicious shadows, which danced across the Traveller’s worn face. His breath was cool and crisp, reflecting his eyes, which were the color of the ocean, hidden beneath rings, like that on the base of an old Bristlecone pine. His vantage point was significant, ahead, the dark, rippled, steel blue sea, behind, muscular peaks of sand, stretching for miles. The Island was longstanding, the earth rich with volcanic rock and settling debris. It was relatively large, however the Traveller knew it better than the back of his hand, every mountain and river, a wrinkle or callas. The Traveller boosted himself up from his seated mold in the sand, wiping beads of sweat from his temple and neck with dirty fingers.

Reluctantly, the Traveller placed one bare foot in front of the other, beating the avalanche of sand that mirrored his step, as he descended the slope. Stick in one hand, and the other entwined in his wiry, silvered beard, the Traveller continued his way back down the drift, heading towards the tree line. The tiresome slap of bare feet on dirt was endless; he had been on the move for days. As he neared the bottom of the dune, the sand turned to dirt, which soon turned to grass, the newly even land steadying his feet. Although it was nearing dark, the Traveller squinted in the last rays of the sun peeping through the trees. The shadows accentuated deep wrinkles on his face like cracks on a glacier. He looked up over the empty, yet full, sun-bleached land, breathing in the sharp salty air. Nothing. The only sound was the steady slap of waves on the cliff; the Traveller’s breaths matching this rhythm.

Ahead, the track narrowed slightly, wrapping around the top of the cliff, waves beating the face below. Eyes focused on the sandy track ahead, the Traveller tried not to look over the sea wall, hands quivering as slightly as light rain, availing his fear of great heights. Clouds formed ahead on the horizon, the sun vanishing, the world becoming dark. The Traveller’s eyes dropped, becoming dull and vacant, his body limping with weariness. He had reached the top of the next sea wall, his route to the south following the cliff line. Stopping still in his tracks, the Traveller let out a withdrawn and tired sigh, his throat rasping, and his gravel like voice longing to speak. Slowly, the Traveller sank to his scared knees, his bones giving in to the alleviating pleasure of rest. Weathered hands pulling at his sweaty, tangled hair, he sighed again. His dreary eyes trained on the oasis of calm ocean, face resting in his hands far too close to the edge. As the clouds grew darker, the Travellers ears tuned for the tell tale clap of thunder. The storm was here. On cue, the heavens gaped open ominously; letting rain pour on the Island, the sweet, lush smell cloaking the Travellers nostrils.

There he lay, crumpled in a heap, eyes closed, mouth open, drinking in the war of the storm. Water and sand smothered his body, like cardboard left in the rain. Above him, thunder cracked, light illuminating the world, although it was not nighttime. Frigid wind howled from the north, grass and sand blowing up in hurricanes. It was only now, in the thick of the storm, sixty-seven years on, that a smile did cross the Traveller’s timely untouched lips. It was that of a newborn, untried and beautiful. Slowly, carefully, the Traveller raised his body, moving inches per minute. Kneeling at the lip of the cliff, the Traveller elevated his arms higher, higher. Wind cut through his open, bare chest, rain teeming sideways, pelting his face. The sky was scintillating with light against the jet-black cloud, wind moving the Island into orbit: powerful, strong, and alive. He threw his head back, the small smile playing at his lips growing to a grin, larger than the sea.

The Traveller’s heart had been barren and lonely for as long as he had been on the Island. Sixty-seven years. His misty and labored past never seemed to escape him. Memories flooded the Traveller, the night of the accident, a horrendous storm hit. Another crack of thunder, the sky lit up once more, the storm reveling its power over the land. The night of the accident, he felt nothing. It was only later; sixty-seven years later he could finally let her go. The Traveller’s smile faded, turning to a solemn, passionate glare, out over the wild, untamed ocean. This had been the way he looked at her, before the accident, before he left his life and ventured to find something, to feel something, on the island. And now, he was free. He had everything. He had nothing.

Nothing.