Siha.

The sand is warm, but it feels cold against the memory of your hands. The desert ends far beyond this shore, a mountain range of golden peaks never-ending, kissing the horizon like broken pieces of stained glass. The winds blow and create currents in the dunes, waves of mustard yellow and cinnamon. Here the ground is not stained in red; it is soft, like the memory of your skin under my fingertips.

I woke up under the shade of a tree, the desert sea behind me, and cool cerulean water tugging at my feet. For the first time in a long time, I was able to breathe in the air around me without protest. It tastes of rebirth, of peace, of calm—but it does not compare to the taste of your mouth against mine.

I've come to the shore alone, Siha, and although many other travelers have crossed my path to journey beyond the desert to some finer place, I have stayed. They go to the life beyond this shore, and if their paths are true they will find their way home with their loved ones on the edge of the waste, to the wates of another life. Many have invited me to walk with them, to move on and accept my passing, but they do not understand. I do not stay on my own behalf.

It is with this thought that I selfishly write to you, Siha, waiting for you to wash up on shore like a piece of driftwood. I walk as far as I dare each day, pacing a small track of beach that many others wash up on. Whole families have come together, husbands and wives, children, mostly drell like myself. One day I found a boy no older than Kolyat, and I prayed for his family, and for his mother who followed him days after. It is one of my greatest fears to one day find my son wandering the sand, his life behind him and a cold, lonely journey before his feet.

Time passes differently here, I am not sure if minutes have passed since my death, or years. Whatever the case may be, I hold on to hope that you fulfilled your purpose and lived the remainder of your days with passion and integrity. But selfishly, I wish for you, Siha.

Sometimes a storm cuts off just beyond the horizon and it carries the winds to me, and all I can hear are the death throws of the dead as they sail through the storm. All must pass into the grey before they reach the shore. I do not remember much of my own crossing, only that it was filled with every memory of pain and regret that I lived in my lifetime. I opened my eyes in the water and screamed, and it filled my lungs and pulled me down into the darkness until I found the will to start swimming. Once I breached the surface, the pain resided, and I knew the worst was over. I know you will face your own drowning with the same ache in your bones, but do not let it consume you. Do no give in to the water, or it will swallow you whole.

I pray for you, Siha, every morning as the sun rises. This shore is lonely, and sometimes cold, but I promised you that I would be here to greet you when you come. I will wait as long as it takes, and hope that this prayer reaches you when your soul departs your world and sustains you when you feel like giving up.

I will love you always, Shepard, and I will wait for you here, across the sea.