At night, the dead lovers of the living wade out of the sea and build small fires along the break. They shed their heavy coats, empty their pockets of debris. They know they have lost something—but can’t say what. The fires falter in the wind. Their faces flicker like paper lanterns. They never speak, only warm their hands. When the tide finally rises, extinguish- ing their fires, the current calls them back again. Pulling on their coats, they file into the waves. And somewhere—in a room the shade of deep water—the living lover of the last to disappear, wakes weeping from a dream he can’t remember.