“My castle is broken.”
Noah stared at the ocean.
“She did it on purpose.”
“She did.”
The lifeguard did not soften the answer.
He did not pretend otherwise.
He gave Noah the truth.
Then Captain Reyes placed the golden box on the sand between them.
“Can I show you something your dad left behind without knowing it?”
I stared at him.
So did Noah.
“My dad?”
Captain Reyes opened the box once more.
This time, he lifted the velvet lining.
Hidden beneath it was a laminated photograph, its edges faded from years of sunlight and dust inside a drawer.
He passed it to me first.
The man in the picture was younger, barefoot and shirtless, with wet sand covering his arms to the elbows.
Simon.
My Simon.
He stood beside a massive sandcastle I had never seen, laughing so hard his eyes were nearly shut.
I looked at the photograph far longer than I intended.
Noah pressed against my arm.
Captain Reyes nodded.
“Before you were born, your father used to come here early. Sometimes before sunrise. He built castles right there.”
He pointed toward the waterline.
“Big ones. Strange ones. One had a wall shaped like a whale. The guards would come down and help when the beach was quiet.”
I had never heard that story.
Simon constructed office buildings. Parking structures. Bridges. He believed in measurements, regulations, and foundations.
Things designed to endure.
Captain Reyes glanced toward the ruined patch of sand beside the water.
“Every afternoon, the tide took them.”
Noah ran a finger along the photograph’s edge.
“Was he mad?”
The lifeguard gave a small smile.
That response appeared to trouble Noah.
“Why not?”
Captain Reyes looked briefly at me before returning his attention to my son.
“Your dad used to say, ‘If my kid only learns how to build things that last, he’ll miss half the beautiful things in life.’”
Gradually, the sounds of the beach rose around us again.
