Waves smash against the shore, pounding furiously against the wet sand. They patiently reach farther and farther up the beach. Each new wave arrives, tumbling and rolling, building up, gaining height. Then, with a deafening bang, it collapses, like a popped balloon, falling fast and slamming into the ground. The water scatters on the wet sand, unable to soak in, before rushing back into the sea, preparing to pummel the beach again, determined to make it to the grass at the edge of the sand. Determined to mount the short hill, for on the other side is a house, no larger than a shed. The lights are off in the house, as though it was trying not to be noticed. For if the wind and the waves knew it was there, surely the tiny place would be targeted, and the people inside hurt.

“Grandpa?” Megan’s voice, quiet and young, called out, unheard over the howling of the wind outside. “Grandpa?” she tried again, louder this time. Not hearing any response, she looked away from the blank ceiling. The darkness was like a heavy blanket, thick, and unmoving, as her eyes swept around the room, struggling to see. Sitting up, Megan pushed her blankets off, their rough texture scratching against her skin. She could see better now, a few minutes had let her eyes adjust to the small amount of light trickling through the windows. It was barely enough to see the matches and lamp next to her bed, but she could see. She stretched her hand out, fingers feeling the outline of the matchbox and opening it. When her hand felt for the mass of thin sticks, however, her fingers felt only a couple, rolling away as she tried to grab them. Cornering and pinching one of the matches, Megan carefully lifted it up and struck it against the side of the box. The match caught at once, burning cheerfully. Megan’s hands brought the lamp to the candle, moving confidently with the familiar action. The lamp lit, illuminating most of the room, and showing her grandfather’s huddled shape against the opposite wall.

“Grandpa!” Megan called again, much less uncertain, now that she could see. Her grandfather’s dark outline twitched, showing that he was starting to wake. Swinging her feet out of bed, Megan started across the room, her feet padding against the cold floor. “Grandpa,” Megan whispered, gently shaking the old man’s shoulder.

“Ho- ge- oh,” the man said, blinking into consciousness. “What’s... what’s wrong?”

“When will the storm be over?” Megan responded

“I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“How do you know?”

“I can feel it inside,.” the man tapped his chest. “Right here.”

Outside, the wind still screamed, but to Megan and her grandfather in small house, it seemed to have changed slightly. It was still loud, and dangerous, but no longer destructive and angry. Instead it seemed almost… bored? Could the wind be getting tired? The harsh howls, like a wolf’s, or a coyote’s, had been replaced with something else, but what was it?

Megan crept back to her bed, making sure to put out the lamp. It was as she lay there, on the fine edge between dreams and reality, that she thought of it. The wind had changed, no longer furiously screaming, but mourning, she thought, as though it had lost in a fight against something, and when the sun rose the next morning, it was clear what the wind had lost to. The fallen trees and upturned rocks around Megan’s house were only a small part of the story. The gentle crash of waves on the beach, and the warm sun, burning clearly in the open sky, made it clear that the wind, like so much else, had lost against time.