Today she wears flipflops, a tanktop, and a long, flowy skirt that once belonged to a real flowerchild. She crosses her legs and looks down at the floor. The tile tries valiantly to be sand beneath her feet. Not because she needs it to be, not because it means she’d be somewhere else. Just because it would be nice today, to walk with the crunch of a thousand years beneath her. It would be nice to walk alone with that sound, not walking away from anything, or towards anything, just moving for the sake of hearing her footsteps–

the salty breeze playing with the folds of her skirt, whipping strands of hair into her eyes, the sun warming her shoulders, waves gently whooshing onto the shore, gulls calling to each other…

No, not for any other reason than that.