Returning to the kitchen with the palm stone resting in the grip of your hand, you feel soothed by its companionship.

Placing the stone on the small wooden kitchen table you ritually tip some dark chocolate brown, oily skinned, arabica beans into your stainless-steel grinder and burr them to a fresh coarseness, ready for your French press.

Pouring the boiled water, stirring the pot and placing the plunger into position, then gathering your china mug, popping a slice of freshly cut crusty white bread into the stainless Dualit toaster and fetching the butter and jam.

Arranging a tray, warm toast, with blobs of butter and raspberry preserve, a fresh pot of coffee, and a clean china mug. You place the Rhodonite along side and make your way back to the bedroom.

Laying the tray on the corner of the bed, you unlock and unbolt the back door, swinging the door outward and open.

The sight, sound and scent of the ocean fills you with pleasure and excitedly you tie your gown at the waist before gathering the tray and stepping out into the morning light.

Your bare feet love the feel of the weather worn, sand smothered timbers, that form the back deck of your little cabin. The little ritual you have each Saturday of sweeping them clean, knowing the sand will dune again.

And it’s already begun, as little by little the sands wander inland, towards the cabin, smothering the wood.

You step off the deck and make your way over the soft sands, past where you’ve dug your stone circled fire-pit, and where evidence of the burnt corpses of driftwood you’d sacrificed last night remain, blackened and gray with ash.

Beyond the fire-pit, a small wooden table and a pair of wooden chairs reside, their spindled legs slightly sunken into the soft sand, and seeming to appear almost abandoned on this otherwise empty beach.

Placing the tray on the table, you rearrange one of the chairs to your liking and settle down, stretching your bare feet out into the soft sand, plunging then pouring the steaming coffee into your china mug, before taking a sumptuous bite from the corner of the thick toast, feeling it’s buttery richness drizzle over your tongue.

Your curious mind wanders out to the horizon.

The tide is so still, and the morning light tantalizingly hypnotic. You lift the Rhodonite palm stone and cherish the dark fossilized veins that strafe its smooth pebble flesh.

You close your fingers around its reassuring shape and weight, holding it in your hand, feeling a sense of inner peace, confidence and security, as you lift the coffee to your lips and sigh with the first sip of the dark rich caffeine.

There’s no one around. When the weather is more turbulent you’d expect to see surfers, but you’re surprised there’s no one out walking. You’d usually see a dog or two bounding in and out of the water, fetching a stick or chasing a ball.

You’re not complaining mind, it’s a slow Sunday and that’s just fine. But in the absence of any people-watching to occupy your curious mind, your attention is again drawn toward the only other sign of sentient life, that one lonely yacht, with its tall mast and loose white sail.

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