A young couple jogged past, their movements urgent and focused. Sandy watched them for a moment, then looked back at the vast, shimmering Atlantic. She remembered being that hurried, always looking for the next landmark. Now, she realized the best part of the journey wasn't the destination—it was the feeling of the salt on her skin and the reliable presence of the two women beside her.
Sandy laughed, her voice carrying over the dunes. She took one last look at the horizon, feeling grounded, weathered, and perfectly at peace.
As the sky turned a bruised purple and orange, Sandy stood up and brushed the grains from her linen trousers.
She wasn’t alone. Beside her, tucked into matching teal beach chairs, were "The Driftwoods"—a name her friends Martha and Elena had jokingly adopted when they all moved to the coast in their late fifties.
"Dinner at my place?" she asked. "I picked up some blue crab this morning."
The afternoon sun hung low over the Outer Banks, casting a long, honey-colored glow across the dunes. Sandy adjusted her straw hat, the wide brim fluttering in the salt-flecked breeze. At sixty-five, she had finally traded the frantic pace of a city law firm for the rhythmic, predictable pulse of the tide.