Not Nice, but Kind

“What about your parents?” she asked. “What were they like?”

“I honestly couldn't tell you,” he replied and stared at the water, at ripples in the water, at clusters of trees beyond the water, at the sky beyond the trees.

She wore no shoes and started carving letters in the sand with her toes. It was a habit she'd picked up when she was younger. Many habits she had dropped over the years, but not this one.

“Loss is a funny thing,” she said, still carving.

The ripples kept coming. Even when they were tiny, they always kept coming. Driven by forces he could not see, they were unstoppable, which he admired.

“What are you writing?” he asked, noting her handiwork in the sand, her sandiwork so to speak.

“Letters. It's how I used to pass the time.”

“Used to pass the time?”

She paused and smiled. “Seems I still do it.”

“Seems so.” He stopped looking at the ripples and barely caught her smile, which warmed him.

She went back to her letters, he went back to his water. Time moved, but neither of them noticed.

“My parents were kind,” she said.

He rubbed at his chin. “That sounds nice.”

“Not nice, but kind. There's a difference.”

“Is there?”

She smiled again. His questions were charming, even a bit naïve, just like he was. It gave her more comfort than it should have, and she couldn't explain why, which was part of his magic.

“These letters are for you,” she said, finishing the letter A.

“P-E-A,” he said. “As in pea soup?”

“I'm not finished.”

He forgot about the water and watched as she carved a C and then an E: PEACE.