Mercy watched the sea from her room. Brine and seagulls. Her hands moved over the damp coldness of the ancient sill, drawing her name. She was aware of the secret weight of time.Mercy Jones. 12 years old, wearing an old tartan wool dress waiting for her grandma to come back from the funeral. Mercy was used to waiting. Golden light gently died out on her hair. She touched at its lingering heat. Warmth. Trust. Her truth would lie there some where below in those stones. When she closed her eyes she could hear them returning. When she opened them, then there they would be. Slow sad steps leading to the last corner of their land. Night figures. Inky shapes smudged against lonely walls. All life, and death, was in those stones. Incubating time.
