This bit of Welsh coast always reminded Jack of the Boeshane peninsula. Beyond a stretch of scrubland, tall dunes held together by coarse grasses bordered a wide, sandy beach. Surf broke constantly on the shore, the waves sending up plumes of spray, and the salty sea breezes had made vegetation sparse, the few hardy bushes and small trees stunted and twisted.
Walking down to the water’s edge, memories assailed his senses, he almost expected to hear Gray laughing, calling for him to wait.
But it’s not home; the sand is golden instead of white, and his brother is long gone.