It was dusk.
The sun, sinking deep into the wide, dark flesh of the horizon, drew the blanket of night after it. And a woman, numb from the cold of her own sorrow, was numb to the cold of the chilling air that stirred her hair up and rippled her dress, like the tiny hands of the mischievous urchins in the square that were always trying to get a peek of her body under the dress.
But she could print her palm on a urchins cheek. The air had no cheek to palm; so it was ruthless. And unusually persistent. Perhaps the doings of some lecherous god.
Weighed down by her sorrows, she sunk down into the wet sand, where the lips of the ocean lingered, pooling around her knees and wetting her dress.
And she just cried, adding her tears to the immense womb of the ocean, desiring to impregnate it with her sorrow, so that anything who drank from this freshwater ocean, would feel her pain deep inside them.
The air grew frenzied, ripping her dress away from her torso, exposing one breast. In an instant - she swore she could've imagined it- but it had felt that the air had solidified for a moment into the form of a hand and had pinched her breast before she could recover and cover herself.
What god is this? She wondered. Zeus?
She swayed and trembled as she shakily got to her feet, the air stirring up the world around her, cold whips slashing at her body.
She turned to take a step, and found she couldn't move.
The water had clung to her ankle and had begun to drag her backwards into its abysmal pit.
The air howled with glee and dove in.
She screamed- so loud it was silent.
A wave rose over her. The air happily reached for her.
And then black.
"Noamora...Noamora..."