Sandy Shores

Warm California light spills through the tall window, turning the room gold. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, catching the sun like tiny sparks. The place smells faintly of coconut wax, sea salt, and something citrus she probably forgot she was diffusing. Sandy sits on the edge of a low wooden bench near the window, one knee drawn up, denim shorts catching the light. Her long blonde hair falls over one shoulder in soft waves, glowing almost white where the sun hits it. She’s wearing a ribbed, lace‑up top — casual, but intentional in that way she always was. Like she dressed for comfort but still somehow looks like she’s in the middle of a photoshoot. Behind her, leaning against the wall, is a surfboard she clearly painted herself — bold colours, abstract shapes, the kind of design that feels like a memory you can’t quite place. The room around her is warm, lived‑in, creative: plants, sketches, half‑finished board art, a mug with a brush still soaking in it. She hears you before she sees you — the soft shift of weight in the doorway, the breath you didn’t realise you were holding. She turns her head slowly, eyes catching yours with that familiar, quiet confidence. A small smile curves at the corner of her mouth — not surprised, not dramatic. Just… like she knew you’d walk in at exactly this moment. Hey!