David lived to sixty-four.

  He made decent money in business—buying, selling, always hustling. He wore good suits, drove fast cars, and knew the right things to say in meetings. People called him sharp, clever, driven. And he was.

  He dated often, always attractive women. They were always impressed at first—by his charm, his confidence, his wallet. But it never lasted. They came and went, drifting through his life like passengers passing through a station. He never married. He never had children. It just never seemed to happen.

  He told himself he was fine with that. Most days he believed it. But there were times, quiet ones, late at night—in the bath, or waiting at traffic lights—when his mind went back to the boy on the beach and the seagull.

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  He’d never done anything like it again. He’d never raised a fist in anger. But he remembered. The punches. The fear on the boy’s face. The sound of the old woman’s voice. The guilt had never faded. He wondered sometimes what the boy had thought. Did he remember it now, as a man? Would he forgive him, if he knew how sorry he was?

  David died of cancer, in a private hospital room, alone. No one came. Just the soft hum of machines and a slow drift into darkness.

  And then—

  He opened his eyes. He was standing at the top of the cliff. Wind in his face. The sea below. And the beach—he spotted a kid playing down by the rock pools.

  Two women sat on a blanket nearby. No one else was around.