Tumble. Roll. Crash. The water laps at your toes, running over and under and into the tiny crevices of your skin. You squeal and giggle, and run in and out, evading the back-and-forth motion of the waves, the steadfast rhythm, the persistent cycle. You skim your fingers over the surface, marveling at the range of ripples that are soon overcome by the next wave. You are content.
You are seven, and you are free. It is your birthday, and you have finally convinced your grandfather to take a holiday. They are standing on the boardwalk, two dark, stiff figures in the distance. You have wandered far from Mother and Grandfather, looking for something special to show them, a surprise. It is difficult to please Grandfather, this you have become accustomed to, but you are always sure you can. He and Mother are all you have; you have never known your father—he is never mentioned at home.
It gets awfully lonely sometimes; Grandfather is always in the library smoking his pipe, and Mother, poor lonesome depressed Mother, is always sitting in the garden, gazing into another world. Even dinnertime is hostile; the house elves place the food on the table and everyone eats—no words are exchanged, no smiles are given. You retreat to your room soon afterwards, and remain there for the rest of the evening. You live an isolated life, but now, you are on holiday. You, Mother, and Grandfather are on holiday, and you feel an inexplicable joy bubbling up in your chest. Perhaps Mother will smile, and Grandfather will pat you on the back and ask to take you flying on his broomstick. After all, holidays are times to be happy in.
You walk up the shore, reveling in the soft warm sand between your pallid toes, the balmy breeze in your hair. Your eyes skim the shoreline as you walk, searching for nothing in particular, but searching nonetheless. Shells, rocks, driftwood; they are remnants of the tossing waters. You kneel down and sift your fingers through the debris that line the edge of the beach, letting the insignificant fall through your fingers, and grasping those that catch your eye.
The sun on your back is witheringly hot as you begin to dig in the sand, looking for treasures more beautiful than the ivory shells you hold in your hand. Your fingertips graze a rock. You remove it from the sand, and it is like nothing you have ever seen before. It is rough, but it is smooth. It is translucent, but opaque. There is some refined quality about it. It is green and rounded, and it fits snugly between your fingers. It belongs in the center of your palm, like an artificial heart.
It is sea glass, a remnant of a shard that ceased to be. It has gone through decades of tumbling through the waves, ground smooth by the turbulent sands. The edges are refined and soft, but were you to split it in half, it would be just as sharp as its prior identity. It sparkles in your hand and looks like a piece of green-apple-flavored candy, waiting to be appreciated. It is significant, and you know it. It is meaningful, and you love it. You hold it up to the sun and notice the impurities in the inner glass core, and you admire it even more. You place it in your shirt pocket, keeping it safe and treasured.
You rush back to your family, you feet gently paddling on the sand, sending spray upon spray of gritty clouds behind you. You reach your grandfather, and you smile, too breathless to even laugh. You bring your treasure from inside your pocket, handling it carefully, and you place it in his palm. It seems awkward there, but you do not care. You look up at him expectantly as he examines it. He lowers his hand and drops the gem unceremoniously into your palm, back where it belongs.
"Don't be ridiculous," he says. "It's only a rock."